#with 'count on one finger' exceptions. i have zero patience for people who sit around and self deprecate all their life

[bloodravensarecommies]

re. my tags on the previous post. This whole "Hurting someone and graphic injury as a love metaphor" thing is the Deer Skull Catholicism equivalent of romanticising allowing your fear of intimacy and human connection and history of being a victim of abuse to control your whole life instead of I don't know. Actually fucking working on getting over it. And if I didn't hate christians so violently, it might even be more annoying than people trying to make the infamous serial rapists and racists of the catholic church look cool and progressive

[dramaqueeenamby]

𝐑𝐄𝐃 ⧼𝑏. 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠⧽

A/N: It’s almost a new year! Figured I’d finish this one off with a bang. Literally. Okay, I’ll shut up. Also, I’ve never written Bucky before, so I apologize in advance for the massacre and disrespect of his characterization. 

Summary: ❝You still remember the first time he walked in, the baseball cap and glasses told a story you knew all too well.❞

Warnings: Smut with a bit of plot. Sorta. Mostly, just smut. Vaginal penetration. Oral (female receiving). Light Dom themes (specifically, choking). Blink and you miss it cockwarming.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 3K

RED

You don’t even know his name.

Don’t know where he’s from, who his people are, where he lays his head at night. None of it. Actually, the last one is a lie. You know it’s not here, in this town of less than 1,000 where the only people of color, including yourself, can be counted on one hand.

It’s not ideal, but when wanting to become consumed by a blanket of invisibility and needing to erase your existence from the greater world, you do what you have to do.

You still remember the first time he walked in, the baseball cap and glasses told a story you knew all too well.

Privacy. It was all he wanted, and you’d give him that, along with any alcoholic beverage he wanted. And, he wanted a lot.

You’d once commented that his liver had to be nonexistent and asked just how long he’d been drinking, because no matter how much he consumed, he remained coherent enough to leave a kind tip and close his tab. He said nothing.

He was a man of few words, when in public, at least.

You liked that as well. Maybe it was because he recognized that you had a job to do, or perhaps he detected that look in your eyes. It was that same look that he had, that plea for solitude.

You had a feeling that you weren’t the only one who could be in a room full of people and still feel all alone. You lived by that. So did he.

Interactions and meetings outside of the shabby bar commenced through the most generic of circumstance. It was a copy and paste situation. A rowdy, drunk customer became too intoxicated to remain inside the establishment. You calmly asked him to leave, security was preoccupied with another violent drunk, and next thing you knew, he’d grabbed you by your forearm. His grip was relentless but so was your dedication to break free. Unfortunately, mental fortitude didn’t outweigh physical capability.

He’d shoved you into the a nearby table, sending you onto the floor, your head and side loud with its throbbing. Your eyes shut as the pain coursed. However, seconds later, your attacker was outside, flat on his ass, unconscious.

That was the first time he saved you, and it was all it took for you two to progress into something more. You couldn’t say intimacy. For you, intimacy meant feelings, and feelings were nonexistent here.

This was an arrangement, a source of release.

It was mutually beneficial.

You both received something from the other, an ironic arrangement considering you had a feeling he, like you, had little else to give.

The first time occurred in your car, in the back seat. He was big—in more ways than one—so it wasn’t ideal, but he’d stated that he received a ride, so he had nowhere to offer. You certainly weren’t bringing him back to your apartment. Stranger danger and the fact that it was rundown.

So, that left your vehicle, which again, wasn’t the best place, but it wasn’t the worst. And at least you got to be on top, one of your favorite positions

The time after that, despite your initial protest, happened in the storage closet in the back of the bar. He’d shifted an old keg to block the door before he promptly placed you up and ate you out.

You’d received head before, but this was something different. You’d never had a man leave you as delirious and feeble with just his mouth alone. Hell, most of the time, you had to instruct more than a professor.

The more you thought about it, the more you regretted not charging tuition.

Especially considering most failed every time.

Not him. No, it was as though he knew exactly what you wanted, and he gave off the impression that he wanted it too.

You’d allowed him to lower you to the ground, hands on your hips as he kept you upright and stabilized. For good reason, your legs were bowling balls, and you needed time to find your equilibrium.

However, when you finally came to and attempted to fall to your knees, he stopped you.

You looked up, not saying a word, your furrowed eyes conveying confusion. What man refused head?

You waited for an explanation. He offered none, bringing you back to your feet as he moved the keg and left you alone, confused and still very much on a high from your orgasm.

And sure, at first, you berated yourself for letting a stranger go down on you. You didn’t know his sexual history, but to be fair, he didn’t know yours either. You were both reckless, but with the mind-blowing pleasure he caused you, you weren’t exactly stressing over longterm implications.

You didn’t see him for a few weeks after that, and as much as you hated to admit that you missed him, you did. Mostly because the sex was addictive, but also because every time he came around, you could just see that something was off.

Something ate at him, but whatever it was, you’d never know. And it was better that way. Converging demons never ended well for anyone. Two fucked up people doing more than just fucking and leaving would benefit no one and harm everything.

That sexual tryst also occurred in your vehicle, but the two of you were more creative that time around. You played around with different positions, testing your both your flexibility and comfortability.

You finally told him your name.

He was mid-stroke when you blurted it out, his pace slowing as his eyes met yours. You swallowed and repeated it, louder. On the second round, he used it, quietly mumbling it into the sheen of sweat on your neck, but you heard it, and he knew it. That was all that mattered.

He didn’t tell you his.

That was a few weeks ago, and no matter how busy you get, your head still turns every time the welcome bell chimes. You know better than to eagerly await for a stranger who you’ve fucked on several occasions and know nothing else about. It’s stupid, but in the litany of stupid decisions you’ve made over the years, this ranks pretty low.

And that’s saying something.

Exactly one month since your last sexual tryst, as you dig in your purse for your keys while walking to your car, you look up, key between your index and middle finger when you jump upon hearing your name.

Spinning around with the key lifted high, ready to be used in a defensive manner, your heart rate settles when you see it’s him. He’s leaning back against the brick, arms tucked in his pocket.

Closing your eyes, you place your hand over your chest and scold him. “Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me—“

“Your place.”

A couple of things cross your mind in that moment, the main one being that this bastard is insane. You don’t know shit about him, except for the fact that his stroke game is impeccable and his tongue is the 8th world wonder. Other than that, he is a complete stranger.

Him knowing where you work is one thing, him knowing and visiting where you lay your head at night is another.

There are some lines that you just cannot cross, and this one is bolded, italicized, underlined, and in red.

You can’t.

—

The door shuts, forcing the cheap wall key holder that you’d picked up from the local goodwill to shudder against the peeling wallpaper. In the distance, you can hear something else fall, no doubt breaking, but none of that pulls you off of him.

You moan into his mouth as he pushes you against the wall, his tongue dancing with yours. His hands move to your ass, tugging you into his crotch. You moan again, eyes fluttering sporadically.

How the hell you went from telling him to fuck off to having him minutes away from fucking you is beyond you. It’s also above you now.

Just how he’ll be in five minutes.

“Bedroom,” you murmur against his lip, waiting for him to loosen his grip. His shirt is scrunched in your hand as you lead him to your bedroom. It doesn’t take long, your one bedroom, one bathroom apartment can be explored in its entirety in less than five minutes.

You’re thankful that evening approaches and the light dims by the minute. Just as shining a light into your life would ward off any buyers, so would the light into your apartment.

He tosses you on the bed, and in seconds, you’re on your knees, helping him to pull his shirt off. Naturally, your hands roam his chest. As lighting has technically never been in abundance during the sex, you’re only able to feel areas of his skin that are raised. Scars. They tell a story. His story.

One you’ll never be told.

His hands are against your shoulders before you’re flat on your bed. He pulls your legs from underneath you and spreads them. Your fingers grasp at the button of your jeans as you unbutton them. Lifting your hips, you move quickly to slide them off, but he’s already ahead of you. They’re already tossed to the floor.

You sit up and remove your shirt when he once again shoves you back.

Looking down your body, you realize he’s already nude, dick rigid and leaking precum. Stomach coiling with anticipation, you lick your lips and close your eyes when he grabs you by your hips and tugs you down the bed.

“Fuck.” Your back once again arched off the full sized mattress as he grabbed your thighs, holding you against his mouth. Your hands grasped at the wall behind you, nails scraping as his tongue danced against your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Once thing you’d learned was that he was a man of limited patience, when he wanted something, he wanted it now. Immediate gratification was his dominant preference, and you had zero complaints, because right about now, you wanted the same thing.

Your body wormed as a natural reaction towards his tongue exploring every bit of your pussy. Your clit attracted him the most, but he was generous in the regards that nothing was left untouched. He sucked with skill and hunger and something else you couldn’t pinpoint.

Eyes rolling in the back of your head, however, there wasn’t much you could focus on expect for the man between your legs, even if you tried.

At times, you became too frisky for him, and he’d move one hand to your core, holding you steady. His strength was inhuman. You hated when he did that, though, because your stomach would cave as your insides twisted. It was impossible not to shift away from him, especially when he expertly circled his tongue around your nub.

You could have sworn you felt him spelling something, perhaps your name, maybe even his.

Again, questions you’d never receive answers to.

You weren’t certain, but you got the feeling that he was motivated to continue to push you based on how your body responded to him. And every tryst had shown that you responded almost perfectly to the slightest of his touches. Everything he did wound you up, he got off to that. Maybe that’s why he never wanted you to reciprocate what you did for him, no matter how badly you wanted to.

He preferred to please, not be pleased.

Stars filtered the vision of your ceiling, and even those became blurred and grainy as that familiar feeling bubbled from the deepest part of you and exploded in a majestic display of pants, moans, and breathy profanities.

You were barely coherent as he trailed sticky kisses up your body, past your pupa, over your tummy, both breast, and finally, your mouth. Tasting yourself and him, you brought your hands to his cheeks holding him. You wanted to savor every second of this. He returned your passion, never breaking the kiss as he lined himself at your slick entrance.

You knew the question of readiness was nearing, and quite frankly, you weren’t for it. You wanted him, and you wanted him now.

Lifting your hips to speed up his entry, you nearly screamed when he slammed into you. You weren’t expecting it, but holy fuck, you loved it. You weren’t prepared for the rapid and consistent snapping of his hips into yours or the way his hands pinned yours down above your head, but you cherished it.

You felt every inch of him, every ridge of his dick, his balls slapping against the bottom of your ass. All of it. And you loved every second of this. You missed this. You missed him.

The latter realization took you for surprise as your eyes opened, where you were again surprised to find that he was looking directly at you. He was studying you, searching your face for any sign of pain, discomfort, or even dissatisfaction. He would find none.

He never would.

Your thighs tightened around him, and you saw him grit his teeth, his eyes momentarily shutting as he lowered over you. You tugged against his hold on your wrists, thankful when he released you. Your hands immediately went to his back, pulling him against you, your breast against his broad and muscular chest. Every inch of him was chiseled and defined, and you always felt the strength he possessed barely reaching its peak when you two fucked.

This time was no different.

You waited for the moment where his thrusts slowed just enough for you to switch positions, and when it arose, you wasted no time. He was suddenly under you, with you on top of him. Your hands planted on his chest as you rode him. Unlike his rapid pace, you settled for a slow and meticulous pace, gradually working your way up.

You were confident there was no way that you could match his speed, but that didn’t deter you from trying.

Selfishly, you didn’t bother to search his face for any sign of pleasure, too consumed in your own fantasy. Your hands moved from his chest to the wall as you moved to your toes to access a better angle, one that emitted a prolonged mixture of a moan and a groan.

While he was vocal only in the form of occasional profanities and infrequent breathing patterns, you were determined to let the whole building know that you were getting fucked, and you were getting fucked thoroughly.

A letter from your landlord would surely be awaiting for you in the next couple days.

None of that mattered, though.

You’re not sure how long you go at it, but you recognize what’s coming. And so does he. You’re briefly caught off guard when he sits up and holds you against his chest. Both of your mouth are parted, and he never tears his eyes away from you, even as bliss overcompensates will, and your eyes shut. Your teeth bite into your bottom lip, and you close your mouth to quiet your scream when you reach your climax, as you both reach your release.

As his warm seed spreads insides you and yours coats his bottom half, along with your bedding, your heavy breathing and sluggish body alerts you to just how fast and how hard you two were at it. Completely spent and unwilling to move, you fall on top of him, uncaring of the mess that coats you.

Besides, you expect him to carefully peel you off of him. Instead, you receive the opposite, he brings him arms around you, holding you against him.

Your eyes shut. A few minutes of silence fill the void until he fills it with a proclamation.

“I’m not what you need.”

For some reason, his statement causes you to smile. This is the most verbal he’s ever been with you, and you recognize that. You appreciate it.

You appreciate his honesty.

“And I’m not what you need,” you speak into his slick chest while he rubs circles on the small of your back. “But this is what we need.”

He says nothing.

A few minutes go by when you finally gather the courage to ask what you wanted to ask from the minute you saw him standing outside the bar. “You staying the night?”

He takes a few moments to answer, but it’s long enough for you to regret even asking. And then, he speaks.

“I can.”

His answer takes you by surprise. It’s not a no, and it’s technically not a yes, either. However, you recognize the optional aspect in his voice.

You don’t provide a verbal answer. You simply cradle your face into his neck, sighing at the calming feeling of him still being inside you.  

You know he won’t be there when you open your eyes, and that’s okay. He’s here now, and while you don’t know for certain, but you’re confident that he’ll be back.

And that is what allows you to peacefully close your eyes and succumb to slumber.

[shiversdownyerspine]

10. Douse

Still alive and kickin, I can’t be stopped!

18+

Expected to be set back on your feet as Axel reaches your screen door, you feel your face flush when you realize he fully intends to carry you out like this in front of his brothers.

At the sound of the handle turning with a creak, you promptly start flailing.

"Axel I can walk, you know I can walk! Let me down!"

Your cries falls on deaf ears. The relentless man releases the door handle to adjust his grip; the hand on your thigh slides higher, taking your dress with it, while his other grabs the back of your knee. Thrashing reduced to a much more controllable wiggling, he kicks the door open and steps into the sunlight.

Squirming and praying your rear is still covered, you try a different angle, "I will answer any questions you have about my Phase, I promise!"

That brings him to a stop. You brace your hands as close to his shoulders as you can and push off, shoving yourself backwards to his front.

With a gasp you slide down his chest as his hand cups your side to steady your quick descent. Your bare feet lightly pat atop the stone of the patio. The oh so cold wet stone.

Jolting at the chill, you look around the watery murder scene before turning your attention to the two culprits standing face to face like they're in some sort of showdown; Otto and Oscar, to their credit, have pristine feet. But at the cost of becoming drowned rats. 

You hold back laughter, but allow a wide smile. Their hair is an utter mess.

Otto and Oscar are ripped from their stalemate at the sound of your voice, "I'm sorry to say, but you're going to have to put your water war on pause. We should get this started before the weather takes a turn." 

Your next sentence you mutter just loud enough, "That and before a certain somebody gets impatient. And tries to carry people again."

The hand still at your side gives a soft warning squeeze that has you quickly scurrying over in the direction of your patio furniture before he can grab you up. You're not going to take any chances, you'd like to keep your feet on the ground thank you very much.

The younger brothers glance up at the sky to see rain clouds on the horizon. They wander closer to the cottage as you check and make sure the flower bushes close to ground zero haven't been completely flooded. Otto rewraps the hose as Oscar tries to squeeze out as much water as he can from his sweater. After securing the coils back on the hook, Otto slumps down in one of your wooden chairs. Sliding the messy locks of his hair out of his face, he gives Oscar the stink eye as his brother flops even more gracelessly down in the matching chair next to him.

Oscar pauses, taking a closer look at what you're wearing, and smacks Otto's elbow with the back of his hand. Otto glares at his sibling before his attention is directed to you. Admiration lightly flushes the large man's cheeks as Oscar grins at his reaction. Your usual wear is adorable, but they would kill to see you in something light and flowy like this again...and judging from the possessive hand Axel has rested at your back after he makes his way to you, he approves as well.

Trying not to focus entirely on the warmth of the eldest brother's hand, you step carefully to the wooden bench sitting adjacent to the chairs. Taking a seat, your feet lift quickly from the chilly shallow lake below as Axel follows close behind you. 

Sitting beside you, the man pulls your knife from his pocket, and begins with a simple, "Explain this."

Your eyes flash stubbornly. Did he really think you were going to make this easy for him? After his earlier stunt? Right.

As innocently as you can, you reply, "Axel that's a paring knife. You cook, you should really know this."

Oscar chokes his laugh down as Otto clears his throat. Unbeknownst to the two of you, the younger brothers had actually been locked in water combat for only a short time; earlier on Otto had gotten distracted by you and Axel, and Oscar had noticed where his tallest brother's attention had been directed. You both have had a captive audience pretty much the entire time.

At least until Axel had made his way over to the screen door with you tossed over his shoulder. Oscar had immediately grabbed the hose and did what he had to do to hide any sign of their guilty observation and eavesdropping. Otto hadn't been amused, but he begrudgingly understood that they may have needed some sort of alibi.

Axel's nostrils flare, his eyes narrowing as he thumbs along the blade.

He drawls, "What do you do with it."

Keeping a straight face is becoming a bit difficult. He is making this too much fun for you.

With slight confusion you reply, "...It's...it's in the name."

The silence from Axel nearly breaks Oscar. Otto has his poker face on and appears unaffected by your antics, but the mirth in his eyes tells a different story.

As for Axel? He betrays almost nothing, maybe a mild frustration at best. But his brothers would bet money that their older sibling is resisting some rather...lustful urges right now. Your teasing bothers the eldest in the worst way...or maybe the best.

Your eyes fall to the knife in Axel's hand. Might as well get this show on the road.

"...But yes, I do use it differently. I use it as an aid for my ability. When I want to change into my Phase, that knife provides me with a method that gives me the most control. If I vary the depth of the cut, I can adjust the time I spend in my Phase."

Oscar glances at the little unassuming tool before asking, "Change for what?"

You shift on the bench, getting a little more comfortable.

"Well. When I first started living here, my forest and lake were in pretty poor condition. Garbage and filth had been left sitting for years, which meant the soil was being smothered by water that couldn't drain the way it needed to. Because of the waterlogging, many of the trees developed root rot."

Cocking your head to the side, you recall the information provided by your environment books. You had spent countless hours reading and notetaking, determined to restore your childhood home.

"Root rot isn't the most dangerous thing, but it can be tricky to identify in its early stages. A little less than half of the pines were infected, a good amount too far gone. Their root systems had basically been turned to mush."

You worried for a moment you were boring the three who may have been expecting something more thrilling, but they appeared to be listening quite intently. They had mentioned hunting and fishing in their lives, so you'd have to remember these three weren't just assassins, they were woodsmen. Maybe this was right up their alley?

"So! The biggest problem I had at the end of the day, was identifying pines in early stages of rot. Not to mention a lack of tools to do so. But I knew that my ability affected my senses, and thought maybe I could use that."

Otto murmurs, "Better senses?"

You pause, "...Yes and no. Um...take my eyesight for example, my night vision. My eyes are better at night but are more sensitive to light, kind of like..an owl's. So in that aspect, it's situational. Better at night, weaker in the day. If there is anything I can call 'better' outright, it'd be my hearing and balance. But not by much."

Fidgeting with the hem of your dress, you fight back bashfulness at talking about a part of your ability that is particularly...bestial.

"When I was in my forest in my Phase, I..was using smell. Normally you smell root rot from the soil, it'll be bad...swampy. But with time and practice, I could smell the rot itself. I can't really describe it other than it's very...heavy."

Decay in particular stood out to you; a combination of sharp and dark, old and new and lost. You count yourself very lucky that you had no urges to consume those types of things, given the peculiar animalness of your ability.

"So, that's what I use my knife for."

You lean against the side of the bench, folding your arms over your belly as you think. There was something else...

"Oh right! You wanted to know um...why I didn't attack you three the first time? To put it simply, instinct plays a part in what I choose to perceive as a threat when I'm in my Phase. It's...decently reliable."

Otto shifts, grimacing at the wet feel of his long johns sticking to his skin, before asking, "To you, not a threat?"

A soft sigh leaves your lips, "I haven't really been in many dangerous situations in my life. But uh...when you three caught me...there was no sinking, overpowering, awful sensation. It was quiet. I was really nervous, definitely, but it felt like...I could wait? So I did."

You smile a little, "Besides, my healing gives me a little more wiggle room in terms of patience."

Oscar shuffling in his seat draws your attention; he does not appear to be happily enduring the texture of his soaked turtleneck, and his frustration is mounting. Refusing to be trapped and uncomfortable any longer, he slips his suspenders off his shoulders and drags the article of clothing up and off his body.

With flushed cheeks, you watch him drop the sweater onto the arm of his chair and relax half-naked in his seat. You try to distract yourself from the handsome man, to rip your eyes away before you're caught.

You succeed, much to your relief. Only that relief is temporary as your eyes land on Otto, whose clinging long johns have been rendered nearly see-through and what were you talking about again?

When Oscar returns his attention to you to see you tense and cheeks practically glowing with your gaze riveted to your knees, he smirks. Oh sweetheart, you can look if you want, they won't bite.

Well. Not too hard at least.

Besides, they've all been looking at you for quite some time. Not to mention having some not very polite daydreams involving you. Do you think of them too? Of their hands and mouths on you, fingers and tongues inside of you, bodies pressed tight against yours?

Curiously, he looks to Axel, whose interest is still on the knife...except its not, not at all. He's watching you, eyes half-lidded with a wicked spark glimmering in their depths. He'd seen your reactions, and if Oscar had to guess, was having some more indecent thoughts of you right now.

You're trying to convince yourself that the burning gazes you feel are simply the brothers thinking of questions...but if that's all it is, why do you feel so naked?

You squirm; it's probably just in your head, but you can't bring yourself to look up and meet their eyes just yet. You need something to keep the ball rolling, before this silence stretches on for too long.

Well...there is something that's been on your mind lately...

"...If..If you don't mind me asking you all a question?"

That seems to break the trance they were in, curiosity pushing through.

Axel encourages, "Go on."

You approach the question gingerly, "Alright..so doing the work that you do...I'd imagine one of your stronger instincts would be protecting yourselves and each other. Avoid hesitation...shoot first ask questions later? And...well?.....you all saw some..weird...woman?..animal?!?..looking thing! With glowing eyes, like something out of a nightmare. Why did you let me live?"

The silence and quiet shifting of their bodies that follows your question is enough to draw your eyes up from your knees.

The brothers had their gazes fixed on you, but after they have processed your inquiry, they falter. Oscar and Otto look to Axel, to you, and to each other. You watch them under your lashes the entire time, a little surprised to see them so...unsure. Axel had settled against the back of the seat, thinking. He seemed far away, lost in old memory. 

Otto keeps his eyes trained on his hands where they rest...were his ears a bit red? 

He mutters something and his brothers look to him in mild surprise.

He clears his throat and tries again, carefully, "Not..night hag...dream? You are...story?"

Scowling with frustration, Otto sighs, "Jävla engelska."

Oscar elaborates, "From fairytale."

Their admission brings back bittersweet memories.

Content to reminisce, yet a little forlorn, your eyes fall to the water that has submerged the stone floor of your patio.

"You know. When I first discovered what I was..or..what I wasn't?..the very first thing I did was grab any fairytale books I could find. Folklore, myths and legends, anything. We didn't have a very good collection though, and many were basically the same stories, but I had to be sure. In the end, there wasn't anything really like me in them. Of course."

It had been disheartening. You had been so naive; you had thought that maybe you could have found some kind of answer or reason for being the way you were, some kind of history or even family. Myths and tales had to come from somewhere, right? Hold some speck of truth.

Wanting to do something about the soft, sad expression on your face, Oscar lightheartedly teases, "Werewolf?"

It works.

Biting your lip, a grin slips through with a giggle, "I considered maybe something like that, but since there was no..changing under a full moon, I crossed it off the list."

You fidget, a little sheepish as you admit, "I still read any new fairytale books I can find in town. I'm not exactly looking for anything anymore, but...well, habit is habit I suppose."

Every once in a while you'd pull a book from the small collection locked away in your bedroom to read as you were winding down for the night. That or to pass the time as your condition played Keep Away with your sleep.

Axel finally drifts out of the past to join in, "We were told stories in childhood. Women with tails, or hooves. Forest spirits."

Otto hums, "Skogsrå or Huldran."

Oscar grins, "Forest maiden."

When all three had laid eyes on you, they had to fight back the initial knee-jerk reaction that they had encountered a real mythical creature. After the three had retired to their guest room to regroup, a dazed Otto just sat on the bed and stared into nothing while Oscar had jokingly asked if they could keep you. 

Half-jokingly.

Their curiosity about you had been...exceptional, but they still had manners they needed to mind. Drowning you in personal questions for hours and hours on end was too boorish, their mother had taught them better. They wouldn't subject their polite little hostess to such disrespect.

With a smile you say, "No tails or hooves here, just feathers and scales. And claws."

A ripple breaking the calm surface of water surrounding the bench has you peering up to an overcast sky. Maybe it would have been better to stay inside after all, but a light drizzle never hurt anyone. You can count yourself lucky that cold water doesn't bother your condition all that much...unless it's a cold season downpour.

The brothers look to your hands, recalling the new information you had revealed to Otto about your victim. 

Axel leans in, "Tell us about claws."

You hesitate, considering your response, "Well...they're...basically made of keratin. I think. Like fingernails but stronger. They're not that long, so they can't really be called talons, but they help me grip and climb."

Otto questions, "Not fight?"

Flexing your fingers against the material of your dress, you speculate, "That's...I mean, if I took a swipe at someone I would probably leave a bit of a cut. Although if I went for the eyes that'd be a different story..."

Confusion crosses the brothers' faces. How exactly did you kill the man, then? Was it the adrenaline?

Axel asks what's on their minds, "Can't kill?"

You figured after everything you said to Otto that this would be coming.

"...I know what you're getting at. You want to know how I did..what I did."

You lock eyes with the eldest, bold as you simply state, "I won't be answering questions about that today."

Determination sets the oldest Swede's jaw, "You made a promise to tell everything. Was this a lie?"

Unsettled, you speak before you can think, "Everything about my First Phase, yes! I haven't lied!"

You clap your hands over your traitorous mouth.

Axel blinks, and then slowly, surely, his expression slides into something sly and victorious; you've revealed something quite interesting. Only for a moment do you bear witness to the brothers' growing intrigue before you cover your eyes, head bowing to hide your face in your hands in pure frustration.

Oscar's voice drifts into your ears, "First Phase? More than one?"

You groan, "See, this is my problem. I like you three too much and it makes me slip up in such stupid ways. Fudge muffins."

The three assassins perk up at the additional reveal of your fondness for them, carefully storing that particular little nugget of information away to be closely inspected at a later time. For now, their focus is elsewhere.

Before they can push for a little more clarification from you, a flash of lightning interrupts the conversation. Worried, you turn to the men with a frown.

"We should move this inside, Pumpkin really doesn't like thunderstorms. Not to mention the kittens will probably be scared too."

Oscar is the first to react to the information; leaning far to the side in his chair to peer at the screen door, he can make out a little ball of orange fluff curled tight against the door in misery. You stand, the brothers quick to follow in your lead.

As you head towards the door peering this way and that at your arms and legs, you mention, "Don't forget to check for spiders before heading in. It's been a while."

Otto grunts and the trio do a quick once-over as you pause by the hose to rinse your feet, watching Axel out of the corner of your eye.

Hm. He really didn't check all that carefully...you eye the hose, weighing the risk. Really though, don't you deserve a little revenge?

Yes, yes you do.

Instrument of justice in hand, you take aim and blast him with what water was left in the hose before you have the chance to talk some sense into yourself.

Surprisingly, all the man does is tense up, still like a statue. There's no grunt or bark of surprise, though maybe you heard a sharp intake of breath from him?

Hair disheveled and wide-eyed as water drips from his skin and clothes, he stares at you. His younger brothers mirror his disbelieving expression and you can't help but take pride in the thought that you've successfully surprised all three of them.

You offer him a simple explanation for the impromptu shower, backing slowly away from the hose towards the door to the cottage all the while.

"...You missed a spot."

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Jävla engelska-   Fucking English

[anika-ann]

Homecoming (S.R)

Type: One-shot (long drabble?)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader    Word Count: 1680

Summary: There is no feeling like this; coming home and having this waiting for you...what else could a girl want?

Prompt: coming home to an eager puppy

Warnings: practically zero plot, maybe some bitching about work and then just fluff and more fluff

A/N: For softbiker’s 25 Things Challenge. Thanks for letting me participate in such a positive challenge! May your blog grow and gain more kind followers in the future :))

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You whimpered, muttering profanities as you finally reached the top of the stairs, dropping the suitcase on the floor with a thud, grateful that the wheels would be of use at last. You had climbed three floors up with that thing, because the elevator was out of service; because that was just your luck.

Your feet were aching just like your calves from wearing nothing but high heels for almost two days straight, your Converse doing nothing for you now as it was too late to make up for the time spent in the pumps. The conference few towns over was almost nice, but too luxurious as always; your boss had claim to need you there (he didn’t) and had required you to look presentable and a head taller than him just so rich people could admire his choice of assistant (they didn’t care and those who did made you nauseous).

You really needed to change jobs once an opportunity would rise, before you lost your sanity and missed out on too many things in your life.

You sighed and dragged your feet towards your apartment, a brief smile flashing on your lips as you passed 3A, the home of your acquaintance/friend Clint. A muffled bark greeted you from behind the closed door and you hummed a sleepy “Hi, Lucky” in that direction before continuing your path.

You were worn to a bone; your body felt like made of lead, sticky after travelling, your hair was probably a mess and your breathing was heavy after the almost-midnight workout consisting of walking the stairs while lifting weights.

Yet, contentment slowly lifted your spirits as you reached your door and slid the key to the lock. Furious scratching of nails and quick rhythmic tapping on a bamboo flooring welcomed you along with an enthusiastic bark and you were done for, the widest smile spreading on your lips when you were reminded just what was waiting for you in your home.

You barely managed to open the door for a slit when a pair of paws – one tawny and one white, pushed through, raking with vigour to get to you. You chuckled as you carefully opened some more and slid in, your leg already being bounced on, barks echoing through the apartment as your 10-month-old furball couldn’t but express his excitement.

“Shh, shh-“ you whispered, though the giant grin stayed on your face as you manoeuvred your suitcase into the hall and closed the door and finally, finally crouched to give your favourite boy the greeting he deserved.

The moment you got your hands on him, your heart sang, fluttering in your chest. He was such a sweet baby and not for the first time, you wondered how his previous owners could give him up.

It probably had something to do with the fact that they wanted a damn guard dog – straight away, no less – and didn’t appreciate the love the puppy, a tawny-coloured Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, had been showering them with.

They had called him Fury, for God’s sake. Who does that? He was the cutest thing you had ever seen, a puppy so full of energy and affection that you had been helpless against his charm, falling in love instantly, secretly renaming him despite not changing a thing in his papers. No Fury. Furball. Your adorable loveable ball of fur, tawny, but with a line of white fur on his head and a patch on his chest and looking like he had lost a tiny white sock from his left back and right front leg.  

“Hi, sweety, hi!” you cooed at him, giggling as he climbed up, stretching his neck so he could lick your face, nearly chasing tears into your eyes. God, this. This made the two godawful days worth it.

Your fingers ran through the fur, scratching and stroking his back, behind his ears and it was a testimony of how much he needed to show you he loved you that rather than rolling on his back to earn himself some belly rubs, he kept licking at your face, his tail swinging wildly.

“What a good boy you are!” you continued in low voice, marvelling at how obedient he was, truly tuning down the barking and welcoming you in other ways instead. “What a sweet greeting you’re giving your momma!”

“Well, we did miss you a lot,” a male voice, raspy from sleep, explained, causing your smile to widen enough to nearly tear your mouth, familiar warmth spreading in your ribcage.

“We?” you echoed, your head snapping up to the figure leaning onto the wall, your breath catching in your throat.

You felt heat rising to your cheeks, your heart skipping an excited beat.

There he was, a real-life Adonis, blond, broad-shouldered and tall, with face carved by the Gods himself. And he had apparently taken a nap on your couch while dog-sitting your buddy, because he had his left cheek red and a bit wrinkled – and still, you felt ashamed as he looked like the most beautiful human being in the stark contrast to your pathetic messy self.

It all had been Clint’s fault, really. First, your neighbour – a half-retired Avenger! – had had you fall in love with his dog Lucky, encouraging you to get a pup on your own. While it could be difficult to arrange everything with your job that occasionally required short travels, he had said, there were always people to dog-sit. You were sold and brought a new four-legged friend home two days later.

Except Clint had forgotten to mention that he was off the table as a potential help, because Lucky was a special snowflake – adorable and loveable one, yes, but incredibly selfish, unable to stand another dog in his territory.

And then the goofball of a man assured that it was still not a problem, because he happened to have a friend who would be delighted to help with your Furball and even would be ecstatic to wear him out by running in the park; all of that, for free, maybe for a bit of food, because he couldn’t quite get a dog of his own. You, the dumbass you were, accepted Clint’s offer, because it sounded amazing.

Once again, he failed to mention an important detail. His dog-sitting volunteer was Captain America himself. You had nearly fainted when he had rung your bell at 6 am in the morning, claiming that Clint had suggested a test run (quite literally).

And yet somehow… somehow it still worked out. Furball loved Steve in an instant – because you obviously weren’t the only one ready to fall to this god-like golden-haired and golden-hearted man’s feet – and Steve Rogers became your regular dog-sitter.

Now, he was standing in the tiny hall in your apartment, smiling tiredly at the reunion of two desperate co-dependents, probably aware just how ready you were to faint again as he had claimed that both of them had missed you.

He didn’t even have the decency to be bashful about it, the charming bastard he was.

He bounced off of the wall, slowly walking to you, extending a hand to help you up. You patted Furball’s head once more and accepted, letting Steve to pull you to your feet and wrap his arm around your waist, his gaze roaming over you lovingly despite your dishevelled state.

“Well, we missed you a lot,” he had said that one time about four months ago, shocking you into silence as you had simply stared at him, watching the blush creep up his neck and face at your soundless “We?” as he realized what had slipped past his lips.

He had been a lot more bashful then, stumbling over his words, frantically trying to explain— and ending up asking you (and Furball, obviously) out anyway.

Four months later, here you were, midnight approaching as Steve greeted you home, a kiss to your hair before ducking his head to kiss your lips.

“Yeah,” he whispered to your mouth, his nose tenderly bumping yours, half-lidded eyes and goofy smiles. His lips caught yours again, only then breathing out the magical word. “We.”

It became a ritual of yours, that little exchange. A brief heartfelt tribute to the moment of your relationship taking an unexpected turn.

Soft ‘hi’s were whispered, few more pecks alternating with ardent kisses lasting long enough to steal your breath, your already tired feet feeling like made of jello, your brain turned into mush with each stroke of Steve’s fingers in your hair.

A whine and impatient pats on your calf signalled that your furry friend was losing patience and demanding some of the attention too. Both you and Steve chuckled to the kiss, parting and he bent lower, giving your good boy a calming scratch behind his ears, while trying to maintain eye-contact with you.

“You could have called, I’d help with the suitcase. The elevator-”

“Yeah, I noticed. Didn’t want to wake you…”

Steve shook his head tenderly, touched and mentally rolling his eyes at the same time. Sometimes you treated him as if he was not a supersoldier… but you both knew he in fact enjoyed it on occasion, simply because while he loved pampering you, he appreciated to be just Steve around you.

“How was the conference, honey? How was the journey?

You huffed in annoyance, not keen on tainting the wholesome reunion with grumbling about your unappealing job.

“I’ll tell you in the morning. Now I just want a shower and some snuggles if that’s okay,” you mumbled, your energy once again leaving your body at the memory of your draining weekend.

Steve’s brows furrowed in concern, but when you attempted a lame smile, he returned it fully and planted another kiss on your forehead, caressing your arm.

“Yeah. I think we can do that,” he assured you with a light squeeze to your bicep, turning to your companion as he patted his thigh and gestured for the puppy to follow. “Come on, Furball. Let’s leave your momma to clean up and warm the bed for her in the meantime. Then we can give her all the snuggles she wants.”

Steve glanced at you over his shoulder once more, a twinkle in his soft blue-green eyes and you felt your heart grew in size.

It felt good to be home. And coming home to a puppy and a man who could as well be a golden retriever in a human form? There was simply no other feeling like it.

You couldn’t wait to snuggle them both.

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S.R. masterlist

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Thank you for reading! I’m pretty sure that’s the shortest fic I’ve ever written, so I hoped you enjoyed the change ;)

[whiskas-pandastar]

Gift

Shicca Week 2020

Day 1 -  Day 2 - Day 3

Day 4: Prompt: Gifts

Rating: K+

Word Count: 2533

Genre: Romance/Humor

"Why don't you kiss Shiki?"

As soon as the question had slipped out, Rebecca froze, her mouth dropping open and all the blood rushed to her face at once as she blushed a deep scarlet. There is a short circuit in her mind as she tries to place the thought in her mind. Her mind refuses to comprehend where this came from.

The girls of the Eden's Zero crew were currently seated in Rebecca's bedroom, having a girl's night out, playing games and chatting away. While initially it was just a fun time relaxing with the crew after dinner, occasionally, they would force Weisz Shiki, Happy and Moscoy (to their great reluctance) to have a boy's night, just so that the girls could have some girly time. Today had been one of those nights, and they were playing a card game when the topic shifted to Shiki's birthday, which was tomorrow. The team had been planning a party for him secretly under the wraps, to surprise him the next evening, as he himself didn't seem to remember his birthday.

Rebecca had been pondering about what she could gift Shiki. She was thinking of dropping by Blue Garden before the party and purchasing a new pair of headphones or the latest game on the market. She even considered making a handmade gift by following one of the DIY B-cubers out there, but decided otherwise, taking into account her lack of creativity and patience.

But then, Homura declared that she had bought him headphones too, while Hermit had already downloaded a new video game for him. Everyone seemed to be ready with their gifts for Shiki and Rebecca was quickly running out of options and ideas.

That's when Hermit made the suggestion.

"That's a good idea." Homura nodded to the twin-tailed android, and placed another card on the pile.

"Perfect, even." Hermit adds, bobbing her head solemnly. Everyone seemed perfectly nonchalant about the whole idea except Rebecca.

Rebecca shook her head fervently, "How exactly is that a good idea?"

The Four Shining Stars of the Eden's Zero plus Pino, look up at her in unison, their expressions indiscernible. Feeling self-conscious, Rebecca blurted nervously, "Wh-What is it? Why are you all looking at me like that?"

All at once, they turned away, and none of them spoke.

"What was that about?" Rebecca furrowed her eyebrows quizzically.

"Well, we thought you already knew about it." Hermit makes a dull expression, placing the next card.

"Huh? Know about what?" Rebecca pushes further.

"That you have a crush on Master Shiki." Pino answers and plays her turn.

There is silence in the room and then Rebecca bursts out like a volcano, "What did you say?!" She blushes tenfold, "Wh-Where did you get such an idea!?"

Homura eyes Rebecca, "We thought it was really obvious."

"O-obvious?" Rebecca falls short of words upon this revelation.

"Yeah, frustratingly obvious," Sister huffed, placing her card on the pile.

"B-But I don't-" Rebecca puts down her cards as she squirms uncomfortably.

"Well, you do like him, don't you?" Hermit asks, and smiles as she placed her card, just 2 cards away from winning the game.

Rebecca sighed, "I do like him... but... " she fingers the playing cards, deep in thought.

Of course she liked him. How could anyone not like him? He was extremely cute and funny and always went out of his way to help people. He was so honest and kind, with the ability to see good in everyone and everything. He always managed to turn around any situation, and never gave up on his friends.

"Well?" the Eden's Zero crew was staring at her.

"I don't know." Rebecca concluded, her eyes downcast, "I don't understand anything about romance, okay? I don't even know what Shiki feels about me."

Sure, Shiki was kind to her, and called her a friend. But she couldn't deny that there were moments some where he made her so special, his actions making her heart flutter every now and then. She was so grateful to him, always there for her; rushing to save her like when she had been kidnapped and sent to Guilst or when she had been captured by Drakken Joe; comfort her whenever she felt down, and made her feel like herself. Even his few words and actions managed to make her feel good.

"While it's true that you don't know what Shiki feels about you," Witch finally breaks her silence as she picks out a card from her pile and places it before them, "You do know about your own feelings. And when you do, you should act on them before you regret it." She looks up at Rebecca, smiling softly, "Your turn."

And before she realized it, she couldn't remember what it was like before Shiki tumbled into her life. She couldn't even think about the future without his stupid and radiant smiling face.

"I detect an intense pulse rate." Pino reports, "Miss Rebecca, are you okay?"

"I'm...fine" Rebecca trails, her lips curling into a smile as she thinks of Shiki.

"Well, will you take up the suggestion then?" Sister leans in raising a brow.

Rebecca finds herself blushing again, "It’s not like I'm not against it or anything... "

"Well hurry up then." Before she knows it, the Four Shining Stars are pulling her up on her feet and shoving her towards the door. "Wh-What?" Rebecca yells in disbelief.

"You can't keep him waiting!" Homura says seriously.

"His birthday is tomorrow! Why now?" Rebecca struggles against their strength.

"Our plan requires-" Pino is cut off as Hermit quickly covers the little bot's mouth.  "It's just twenty minutes to twelve o'clock, so it's the same." Hermit insisted while she throws a look at Pino.

"Shiki's in the flight deck, right now." Witch informs her, aware of every presence on the ship.

"Wait a moment-" Rebecca protests as the shove her out of the room.

"Good luck!" they chant at once and close the door.

Rebecca stands there by herself in the corridor of the sleeping quarters. What did she get herself into?

-x

"So let me get this straight," Shiki crosses his arms around his chest as he ponders, "You can't kiss friends?"

Weisz sighes maybe for the millionth time as he ruffles his head in frustration. He knew it was a bad idea when they started watching a sci-fi movie that suddenly took a romantic turn with a subplot between the two leads. And with Shiki's unending curiosity, he couldn't even enjoy the movie in peace. He was left with schooling the boy, about things Weisz certainly did not want to discuss with, especially with a guy. "Technically you can. But there's a different type of kiss for that."

"There are different types of kisses?" Shiki looked even more confused than ever.

"Yes, Shiki." Weisz set down the tub of popcorn. "Now, can we continue the movie, please?"

"What kind of kisses? Can you show them?" Shiki looked at Weisz eagerly with big eyes and leaned towards him.

"Good grief." Happy lets out a laugh at Shiki's inquisitiveness and Weisz's growing discomfort.

"No, you idiot!" Weisz grunted as he scoots away, his cheeks heating up in embarrassment, "Get away!"

Shiki frowns deeply, "Why not?"

"Because-" Weisz looks away, "Because you kiss only people you like, okay?" he answers bashfully and hopes this answer satisfies him.

"People you like?" Shiki tilts his head in thought. Not even a moment passed as Shiki declares, "But I like you, Weisz! You're my friend! Don't you like me Weisz?" Shiki makes a happy, innocent face as Weisz face palms. He feels as though he will age a hundred years and the curiosity of this boy alone was going to cause all this hair to turn grey and fall, just like his older counterpart.

He ignores his last question and tries to get it through his thick, clueless head, "You can't just kiss everyone, thwomp-boy. It has to be a person you like...rather, a person you love mutually. A person who's special to you."

"Eh... " Shiki trails off again. "But Weisz-"

"Alright I'm out! I'm off to bed." Weisz declares before Shiki can ask anything more.

"What about the movie?" Happy asks and Weisz waves his hand dismissively, "Lost interest in it already."

Shiki watches him leave and then taps his chin in thought. He sighs and then turns off the projector.

"Don't over think it so much, Shiki." Happy's cheerful voice breaks the silence. "It's not that complicated, I'm sure."

Moscoy nods in agreement, "Nothing to worry, Moscoy!"

Shiki grins at the two android bots, "Thanks!"

"I guess it's time we go to bed too." Happy rubs his eyes tiredly. "Rebecca and the others must have winded up by now too." Happy jumps off the sofa and proceeds to leave. Before they take their leave, he asks, "Aren't you coming along, Shiki?"

"Nah, you go ahead." Shiki waves, still grinning.

"Alright, good night!" they chant as they leave.

Rebecca walks in a few minutes later, and watches as Shiki is silently gazing outside the window, into the Sakura cosmos. At the sound of her soft footsteps, Shiki turns to look. "Rebecca!" he chirps happily. "You're still awake?"

"Yeah..." Rebecca smiles nervously. He eagerly pats the space beside him, urging her to sit. She chews her bottom lip nervously and sits beside him on the sofa overlooking the galaxy.

Ugh, curse the Four Stars of Eden to make her feel so overly self-conscious.

"Did you guys have fun?" Shiki asks Rebecca, his face wrinkling cutely as he smiled.

Rebecca was having a hard time controlling her erratic heartbeat, "Uh-huh." she answered. She wants to look away, but she is unable to, mesmerized by the warmth and gentleness in his expression.

"What did you do?" Shiki inquires giving her his full attention, making her half wish that he wouldn't look at her so intensely.

"Um, nothing. We just played some games... And chatted a bit." she replied curtly.

"I see." she breathes in relief as he turns to observe the galaxy spread before them. They are engulfed in silence, except for the incessant pounding in her ears. She wills herself to calm down. This was just Shiki, her best friend. She didn't have to worry about anything.

Her heart almost leaps out of her chest as Shiki abruptly throws her a question, "Say Rebecca, have you kissed anyone before?"

"What?" Rebecca splutters, wondering if she heard him correctly. "Wh-Why would you ask that?"

Shiki scratches his head, "Well, it's just... Weisz was saying that you kiss only special people... " he trails off, suddenly he notices that his palms are a bit sweaty, and his heart pounds weirdly.

Rebecca urges him to continue, "And..?"

"And I was wondering, how do you know who is that special someone?" Shiki blurts out and then exhales deeply, running a hand through his hair.

Besides his serious expression, Rebecca finds herself giggling. Shiki looks at her and blushes self- consciously, "Why are you laughing?" he pouts.

"Sorry-its just...you looked kind of funny." And adorable, she added in her head.

As the room falls silent once again, Shiki mutters again, "Well?"

Rebecca swallows deeply, wondering how she could answer his question. "Well, somewhere in the depths of your heart, you just know, you know." she smiles softly, fixing her gaze at their reflection on the glass of the window, aware that his eyes are fixed on her. "They make you happy and comfortable. They bring out the best in you, support you and... "

"And?" Shiki asks eagerly.

She pushes her face to look at him, "And then one day, you realize that you can't imagine your life without them." she finishes, her voice reduced to a soft whisper.

Shiki's pulse quickens a bit at the tender look on her face and his stomach drops a little. With the glow of the stars on her face, those gentle sapphire eyes shining, she looked so heavenly. What had gotten over him? He didn't remember feeling so... nervous...so jittery around Rebecca.

He quickly looks away, back at the window, staring at the scattered stars. "I-I see." he replies shortly.

They gaze upon the universe together, the big world before them, so many things yet to be discovered, infinite possibilities, adventures waiting to be unraveled by them, so many friends yet to make. But Shiki was happy enough that Rebecca was with him, here, right now by his side.

He smiles as he spots a shooting star far away, or perhaps that was a dragon? It didn't stop a wide grin from spreading in his face, "Look!" he points excitedly. "Doesn't it look so pretty?"

Just then, the clock struck twelve with a chime.

"Rebecca?" Shiki turned to look at her. His eyes widened as Rebecca grabbed his face and pressed her lips against his. She pulls back before he can react, her face is adorned with a pink blush and a little grin, "Happy Birthday, Shiki."

Shiki blinks in realization and before they know it, he pulls her in his arms and they kiss again, a bit sloppily, their hands pulling at each other's hairs, trying to deepen the kiss. When they pull back, they blush awkwardly but with a look at their messy hairs, they burst out laughing.

"I think that kiss needs some work." Rebecca giggles softly.

"I think so too." Shiki grins sheepishly. "We have a lot of time to fix that." He drapes an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close.

Her cheeks turn red again and she wraps herself around his torso in a hug, pressing her ear to his chest. "You're right." she closes her eyes and hears his heartbeat, relishing in his warmth.

"Was that my birthday gift?" Shiki asks as his other hand reaches out to hers.

Rebecca nods shyly, "Yes...Are you happy?"

"Of course I'm happy!" Shiki answered in a heartbeat and Rebecca finds her cheeks heating up again. "I had forgotten that it was my birthday, though..." he trails off and Rebecca stifles a chuckle, excited for him for the things they had planned for him tomorrow.

"Rebecca?" He calls her name.

"Hm?" she hums, trying to imagine his reaction to the surprise party.

His fingers trace patterns on the back of her hand, "Since it's my birthday, can I ask for one more thing?"

"What is it?" she smiles against his chest.

"Can you wear that super sheer maid outfit-" Before Shiki can complete, Rebecca's fist meets his jaw immediately as she yells, "In your dreams, you pervert!"

She crosses her arms and turns her head in annoyance, as she fumes, "Hmph. You totally ruined that moment!"

Shiki nurses his jaw and still manages to chuckle, "Rebecca-"

"I don't wanna hear it!" She huffs in irritation.

Outside the room, the Eden's Zero crew stands with their ears pressed to the slightly ajar door.

"That idiot...." Weisz shakes his head and chuckles.

"I sense lust." Pino reports nonchalantly.

The Four Shining Stars fist bump each other, "Mission successful, you guys." Hermit smirks in victory.

"Was it really successful, Moscoy?" Moscoy mutters uncertainly.

Happy shakes his head with a smile, "Good grief!"

 -x

A/n: because lets admit it, the whole of the eden’s zero crew is definitely shipping the two of them already :D I love the idea of the Four Shining stars playing match-maker xD 

This one is the longest of all the one-shots I’ve submitted before. I really had a lot of fun putting all the characters in this story. Weisz is definitely fun to write. I want to write a story with him soon.

[somekindofseizure]

When the Ink Dries Part IX

This is not the end of the story, still working on the last few chapters but I felt these were ready to see the world and you all have been so patient. Thank you all for that and thank you @icedteainthebag​ for editing brilliance.

This is, as the previous 22 chapters were, adult-rated material.

* * *

Chapter 23

The vinyl upholstery crackled as Mulder shifted his weight and looked out the diner window onto the expanse of knotted beltway.  FM radio scattered particles of music around him like dust that moved with the swoosh and capture of twin glass doors.  It was a busy morning in the restaurant, but for Mulder, there was only unleased space and silence, the room Scully’s voice and body would soon take up across from him, where her new reality would be borne, where time would reset itself for them as it had so many times already. 

The waitress dropped menus and clicked her gum, winked as though she knew what he was about to do.  New realities, a zero on the stopwatch - these were things of science fiction, sexy from afar, terrifying up close.  He turned down the coffee, he was jumpy enough.

He had run his finger up and down the coiled spine of the menu for the fortieth time when she finally slid into the booth, brushed back a front-leaning strand of hair from root to end, an impractical gesture that had never really seemed to serve any purpose except to distract him.  Saturday brunch sunlight pierced the window like a bullet and Scully chose her spot carefully, taking redheaded cover in a shadow.  He fidgeted in parallel, wanting to be directly opposite her when he said what he had to say.  She laughed, as though he was making fun of her, and reached across for a quick squeeze of his hand.  He fumbled the gesture, his grip still favoring the safety of carefully-named omelets over human women.  She didn’t seem to notice his worriedness.  Maybe in her mind worriedness had become his natural state.

“How was London?” he asked because he didn’t want to say you look so good, I missed you, please come sit next to me, and these exclusions limited small talk.  And yes, because he wondered if she would tell him what happened with Stella.

“Nice,” she evaded, scanning the menu.  They both knew she would get two eggs scrambled with an avocado instead of bacon, tell them to hold the home fries but on-purpose-forget to tell them to hold the buttered toast.  Looking at the menu was mere formality. “How are you, Mulder?” 

And now she flicked her eyes up to note the quality and integrity of his answer, a doctor assessing a patient, if the doctor and patient had spent many years being in love.  And so he could assess back, could see now as she studied him was that though she was happy to see him, there was sadness too.  No doubt this sadness had something to do with Stella’s phone call from the bathroom floor. The realization was bittersweet - a poignant comfort on Stella’s behalf that the heartbreak she’d nursed was shared by the silent party, the dizzying disappointment that that other party was the person he himself was still heartbroken over.

“I’m good, Scully.  You were right about the therapist.”

“Well--”

Normally, she was happy as anybody to accept an I-told-you-so, but she demurred here, waving him off.  He persisted.

“I should’ve gotten help much sooner.  You were right.”

“Okay.  Good.  You look well.”

She turned the menu over, pretended to consider a milkshake.  He’d only seen her actually order one once.  It was as memorable a diner moment as they came - glow-cheeked and kohl-smeared, she’d asked for it with a sigh of relief, as though the night they’d just spent together had earned her some sort of bonus.  Relief.

It had been like making love to her all over again, watching her gaze into the frothy glass, the Redi-Whip level and locking like a canal as she sucked her cheeks in making pinwheels of her cheek and jaw bones.  He had reached over to take it, slurp the remains from the bottom of the straw and she’d slapped his hand away.  When she finally chose something, she possessed it, devoted herself to it. What happened when there were two competing items on the table?

“Any good cases lately?” she asked.  

Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, her finger physically skimming the plastic cover over these joyful words.

“No… well, some,” he said.  “Hospital good?”

“They’re still a little sore over my long leave, but they’ll get over it.  I’m starting to think about retirement.  I think I could do more good that way, volunteering on my own terms… It’s not like I’d do nothing, but...”

Myriad were the hypothetical topics Mulder loved and Scully hated, but this was one of a few that went the other way around.  She could pass hours daydreaming aloud about what she’d do with free time.  It incited a sense of panic in Mulder, made some voice inside him start chanting, I will work until I die.  He muffled a sigh by coughing into his elbow, trying not to sound annoyed, and waited for her to take a short pause before interrupting her.

“I actually brought you here to tell you something,” he blurted.

She looked up, eyebrows at a two percent incline that indicated she was in no way prepared for this moment.  He picked up the file folder on the seat beside him, but the waitress came by with her pad.  Scully made Mulder go first, buying time she didn’t need, and then ordered her usual.

“And a black and white with whipped cream,” Mulder tacked on at the end.

“No, I’m on a cleanse.  London was all red meat and chocolate and alcohol.”

London, not Stella. As though she’d been in a hotel somewhere alone.

“I’ll have it, then,” he said.  

The waitress nodded as she jotted and Mulder wondered how many people used places to set a scene.  Should he have done it in private, where she could cry or scream or do something else (he didn’t know what)?  It was true, he’d been counting on the fake-leather booth and egg-pan breeze to undercut the drama, but now that he was here with her it seemed more likely to exacerbate the situation.

“Sounds like big news,” she said but lightly, a benign reduction - you, the boy who cried aliens.  She folded her elbows on the table and leaned forward.  “Come on, you’re killing me.”

No sooner did the sarcasm settle than she spotted the mustard yellow folder under his hand and her technicolor complexion went grey.  This news was not we’re going to a basketball game, I’m getting a dog, or I found your favorite sweater, here ya go.  This news required a folder with a standard bureau label on it.

He placed it in front of her on the table, laid his hand flat on top of it so that she’d have to look at him before she opened it.  She knew the moment their eyes met.

“How?” she demanded immediately.  She regarded the folder itself like a bomb, waiting for him to tell her which wire was which.  His heart raced and he tried to remember his patience, tried to quell the urge to rush her into feeling any one specific thing. 

“I wasn’t sure we’d be able to find him at all.  That’s not how we set it up,” he said to stall, and to explain why he hadn’t told her he was looking into it in the first place.  He hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up.  

“And… how?”  she repeated, now sounding light headed, shallow-breathed.

“Working for the FBI for a hundred years has to come in handy at some point, right?”

“Is he…?”  

He reached for her hands, bending forward like a branch, an unexpected gale of guilt curling his back.  Generally file folders appeared when a body turned up.  Of course he should have led with this:

“He’s fine, honey.  Just fine.  Sorry.  I should have...”

She nodded quickly, let out a breath.  

The waitress arrived with the milkshake in a deep old-fashioned glass, a spoon, two straws and the stem of a cherry sticking up out the top. For the first time, he understood Scully’s gravitas around ordering these things.  There was a time and place.  Celebration could turn to sorrowfulness, expectation to terror quickly.  Sometimes you’d be sorry or embarrassed you had a milkshake in front of you. Neither of them touched it.

“There’s a picture,” he said.  “Pictures.”

In slow motion, she registered this development, licked her lips, straightened up as gradually as a puppet, pulled her hand from under his and placed it on her stomach.  Air shifted visibly within her ribcage, rippling her fingers as she tried to support her diaphragm externally.  Condensation began to encircle the base of the glass.

“I know, it’s a shock.  I’d half been hoping Stella told you, even though I asked her not to.”

Her face twitched in confusion.  

“Stella knew?”

He shook his head quickly.  

“Just for a couple days before you came back.  It came up.”

Color reappeared in her cheeks and her fingers went to her temples.  The kind of face she normally made when she found herself in the middle of a desert in a suit in hundred-degree heat, chasing down one of Mulder’s hunches, her how the fuck did we get here again face.

“Sorry -I -?  When did it come up?  How?” she stammered.

“She probably didn’t think it was her place.”

“Why do you talk to each other behind my back?”

“We weren’t talking behind your back, we were talking and it came out, Scully.”  

This was a coping mechanism of hers, to bicker through a loss of control, but sometimes mechanisms malfunctioned, caused damage.  He knew that ‘cause he went to therapy now.  Sometime - definitely not now - he would tell her she should go too.  

“I hate feeling like I’m the last one to know things,” she said.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“I hate that there’s someone who can make you come faster than I can.”

She startled, almost laughed, but couldn’t - that folder was still here, in the room, staring her down, just like the milkshake.  

Her eyes moved over the edge of the piece of cardboard, as though it required planning - how does one open a file folder that contains the son you gave away? He tore it open for her, a Bandaid off a scab.

Mulder wasn’t there the first time Scully laid eyes on their son.  He’d had to guess at the way she must have marvelled, the beauty, the awesomeness of it.  No telling how he might have held up then, how that experience might have toughened his tolerance so that now thirteen years later he might not fall apart watching this second first-time.

His chest tightened, tears freezing somewhere between his eyebrows to avoid falling.  Across from him, Scully shed them with sensible abandon, weeping as science intended, peeling the surfaces of her eyes away like dead skin, leaving behind something new and unprotected, something healthier but easier to wound.

There was a school photo of William, a close-up, and then a few surveillance photos that had been taken at a distance.  Mulder had insisted they take no chances disturbing the boy, so these were a little blurry, taken at odd angles, slightly refractory images.  You had to use your imagination in order to piece him together.  But Scully stared, tracing a finger over his profile like he might pop up from the paper and sit with them.  What would he order if he could join them, Mulder wondered?  

He was tall for his age and pouty-lipped, possessed of the pronounced Mulder brow.  But he had Scully’s eyes and his skin was so fair he looked like he’d get a burn just turning the lights on.  And there was one odd thing -

“He’s blonde,” she said finally, mystified.  

“Yeah. Tell Stella I want a paternity test.”

She smiled and laughed, held a napkin to her upper lip to blot the snot.  

“There’s some information, too,” he said.  “It’s mostly, well, you’ll see.”

She flipped nimbly through, taking it all in like one of the old casefiles she’d had to cram before she got out of the car.  As in those cases, there was little to go on.  A tonsillectomy.  One school change to enter a gifted children’s program, a broken arm when he was ten from falling off the edge of a staircase, climbing up the wrong side of the rail, an activity which had almost gotten him kicked out of the fancy school.

She looked up, topmost edges of the papers trembling over her knuckles.  Her fingers were ripply at the knuckle, but her hands were still lovely, expensive looking - little blown-glass figurines that would outlast every piece of furniture in the house.

“He’s fine?” 

“Yeah.  He’s fine.”

William’s life was average in the extreme.  It was regular.  It was everything they could have hoped for.

She put the photos down in a neat pile, straightened her shirt, her lipstick, her hair, pushed the file folder closer to the center of the table beside a ceramic bed of sugar packets.  In a moment, food would arrive and they’d have to pack everything up, put it on a seat to her left or to his right, but for now it sat evenly between them.  Just as much his as it was hers.  

She scratched her lips thoughtfully, tapped the other set of fingernails on the table.  

“He’s fine,” she said, this time quietly, talking to herself, or to the folder, or maybe to God.

And then her gaze settled on Mulder.  It lingered there as the waitress balanced their food on her shoulder, placed down little dishes of overly cold butter and plasticky jam.  A few feet away, a newly minted middle-aged couple joined hands for the first time ever beside their forks.  Behind Scully, an aide helped an old woman into the booth.  Two college girls cooed at the counter, full up with things to tell each other.  Time moving forward and backwards, borrowed and stolen and still and running in circles at every table.

“Fine,” Scully repeated and tugged the cuff of his sleeve.  She mouthed the words thank you, bottom lip grazing her teeth.  She did it again, this time forehead collapsing into the center of her face to make that vertical wrinkle she’d had above her nose since she was twenty seven.  

He nodded, reached his foot under the table so that it rested against hers, his rubbery arch warming the sharp edge of her shoe and he pushed the milkshake across the table.  

She laughed and then took a sip.  Relief.

Chapter 24

As a biology major, Scully had sometimes been warned she was signing up for a life of disappointment.  Satisfaction would be fleeting.  Few of them, if any, would make grand discoveries in their careers.  The earth was already round.  The miracle of penicillin had already been witnessed, sprouted hundreds of other little miracles that bore an ever-less-impressive resemblance. A scientist, Scully was told, must learn to love the question, not live for an answer.

William had been a hypothesis for most of these past thirteen years, and though that was sometimes painful, it was familiar.  It was a circumstance Scully had come to accept.  She’d given him up because she’d firmly believed it was better for him.  Conclusions: none.  Control: none.  It was how she’d assumed things would always be.  But now there was an answer. William existed once again. He looked a certain way and sounded a certain way and lived a very certain life and she would always miss him.  This was harder than she’d ever expected or allowed herself to imagine.  The earth is round - think what that had taken for people to get used to it.  

She rationalized things like the thing she was doing by going over this, comparing the unfamiliar emotions associated with her son to the familiar territory of science.  But Stella was no scientist, and she was no poet like Mulder. She was an answers person. And now she was here, involved in Scully’s experiments, and was not particularly happy about it.

They were seated on a cool-slatted autumn park bench, Stella draped in cashmere and reluctance, the chilly peach East Coast air settling on her cheekbones like stains of faint embarrassment.  It had been eight months since their parting ways - eight months of silence. Stella had granted Scully’s request for a visit without knowing specifically what it would entail.  Now she clasped her brown butter leather gloves over a tightly crossed thigh, pulled the cuffs of her sweater down closer to the edge of her gloves to warm her wrists.

Had this once come easier?  The restraint it took to refrain from touch and mentioning the effect of light on the color of her eyes?  An evening they’d spent in a hotel as just-friends came to mind.

“Did you color?” Scully asks, her surgeon-steady hand poised over Stella’s, light pink bottle of Chanel nail polish in place of a scalpel.

“Color… my nails?” Stella asks and blows a stream of air across her other hand.

“No, you know, like, crayons.”

“Oh.  No, not that I remember.”

Scully glances up quickly to make sure of two things – first, that Stella’s not touching her hair, her spaghetti straps, her Scotch, anything that would smudge the half-finished work, and secondly, that she hasn’t overstepped Stella’s bounds by asking questions.

Stella smiles, quick, casual, disappearing.  It’s hard to tell if it ends quickly because there is no reason to force it longer or because some shadow of the past has swallowed it.

“Isn’t that the sweater you let me keep?” Scully asked, eyeing the grey marled drawstrings on the hood.

“Bought myself another one.”

“And here I thought you’d made an ultimate sacrifice.”

“That would be unnecessary when I could just re-purchase it.”

“You could have just asked for it back, it was expensive,” Scully says, feeling the sting.

“And now it has dog hair on it,” Stella continued.

A stranger’s Golden Retriever had brushed up against Scully’s leg and she’d kept him there for a matter of seconds

“It’s barely noticeable.  You and the dog have the same color hair,” Scully said.

“I don’t shed.”

“We all shed.”

“I don’t like dogs.”

“You just pretend not to like them.”

Perhaps this had been a terrible idea.  Perhaps she should have waited for Stella to call first.

“Are you certain he’s coming today?” 

“No, not certain.  I haven’t really established a pattern.”

“That’s good to hear.  Aren’t you freezing in that denim jacket?  What have you got under it?”

“A t-shirt.  I’m fine.”  

“I’m not pretending, I truly dislike dogs.  They’re jumpy and they stink.”

Suddenly, Scully thought of some version of her life not lived, pictured Stella in their home, going stone cold as she brought in this or that mutt home from the pound.

“You’re a cat person, is that what you’re telling me?” she asked.

“I’m not an animal person, I’m a people-person.”

Scully double licked her lips as she waited for a punchline that never came.

“What?” Stella pushed back.  “I’m good with people.”

“You’re good at making people do what you want, that’s not the same thing.”

“You should know.”

Scully looked away, scanned a group of children without guardians - not the right group of children.

“I should have told you this was where we were going, but I thought you’d say no.”

Stella looked at her hard - her hardest countenances were reserved for her kindness.

“I think you know me better than that,” she chided softly.

“Did you swim?”  Scully asks with eager intrigue, that new friendship glee still fresh even after a few years of knowing one another.

“No.  I learned when I was older,” Stella says.

Scully nodded, dug the heels of her hands into the bench as she shuffled her feet - uncrossed and then recrossed.  She tossed her hair to the other shoulder so the wind wouldn’t pin it to her lip balm.  Maybe it would be better if he didn’t show up.

“How many times have you done this?” Stella asked.

“Five or six times.  Seven.”  Eight, nine, if she counted the times he hadn’t showed.

“Long drive coming from your place, isn’t it,” Stella murmured.  

Scully said nothing.  She had never even noticed how long.  She had spent exactly none of those hours considering the moral quandaries involved.  It was only talking to other people about it that even made her aware of them.  Alone, driving here, she wondered about his favorite color, his favorite food, if he could play any instruments.  

“Mulder go with you?”

“Just once.”  

He’d thought it was weird, said it felt wrong.  She’d pretended to agree. 

“What did you do then?” Scully presses.

“Horses.  Everything was my horse.  Riding, being with him, sitting there staring at him leaning on a fence, anything.”

Scully laughs and mumbles something about how very English this is and still Stella’s cuticles stay clean, not a stray stripe. Steady fingers, doctor’s fingers.

“Look at that,” Stella says in a soft, appreciative voice, eyes hot and hard where their hands are occupationally joined. “Even better with your hands than I remember.”

The flirtation is a change of subject, a subtle warning, and Scully licks her lips, doubles back for a second coat of the other hand, prepared to drop the topic of the horse.   But Stella keeps talking.

“My father would take me.”

The father, yes. Somehow always comes back to him, somehow always seems like the best and worst of what Stella remembers.  Scully paints, carefully considering her next question.  The color on Stella’s nails thickens so that it goes from a translucent skin color to a ballet pink that matches Stella’s satin slip camisole top.

Stella had turned slightly to watch a crowd of nearby teenagers approaching the skate park.  She slipped off a glove to scratch her lip with her nail.  This was the kind of thing Stella remembered to do that Scully wouldn’t have - all her leather gloves were marked with pink, red, mauve colored wax.

“How did you and I wind up friends?” Scully asked, eyes on her son, voice going wistful against her better judgment  Sometimes she wondered why they’d had to break up (was that what it was?).  Other times, she wondered how they’d started in the first place.   She caught Stella’s profile for a moment at such a perfect angle that she had to look the opposite direction to catch her breath.  Perhaps eight months had not been enough.  “Two not-people-people from separate parts of the world sitting on a bench together.”

“We almost didn’t.”

“And?”

“And I have irrepressible impulses to fuck beautiful people I know for certain I’ll never see again,” Stella said, pronouncing the F so hard it produced pulp in the air.  The playground moms turned to look.

“Blonde, you said? How’s he blonde?”

“Mulder said to ask you.”

“Idiot,” Stella murmured absently, busy separating the boy out from a crowd, putting him at the crosshairs of her attention. Scully found him at once. She knew his walk by now.  His carriage.  She could spot him a mile away.  She didn’t worry when he didn’t come.  She didn’t think about talking to him or touching him.  It was just this, watching, at a distance, periodically.  Still there.  Still there, watching him like he was an infant sleeping in a cradle rather than an almost adult riding a skateboard.

“There, yes?” Stella said, a voice like a long hooked finger, the drawl so sustained the word could have reached across the Atlantic Ocean.  “That’s him, isn’t it?”  

“Yes,” she hissed to herself without Scully saying anything at all.

He was wearing a hat today, a striped beanie and a pair of Ray-Bans, trying to look cool, Scully thought, but the rest of him was still sloppy and silly, lecturing at his friends about something.  Like his father, she thought, and still she felt no angst, no sadness, only peace.  It was like bird-watching, only it was her son out there in the wild.  And this lanky creature here is known as a young human.

“Not what I expected,” Stella murmured, as though a voice any louder might make him flit away, all the way across the park.  Stella said.  “All you.”

“Why is that unexpected?”

“They say the first child always resembles the father, to keep him from wanting to kill it, eat it or abandon it.”

Scully looked at her knees. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Stella said quickly.

“I know.”

Ten, it had been ten times.

“Were you pretty?  You must have been very pretty.”  Scully is flirting and she knows it but it seems harmless enough.  

“I don’t know.”

Scully gives one of Stella’s fingers a little tug, bats her eyelashes to let Stella know she’s teasing, overdoing it.  She doesn’t know how to pay compliments without turning them into jokes.

“Did people tell you you were pretty, fawn over your golden hair while you relentlessly questioned them?”

It’s Stella’s turn to laugh.

The kids were moving closer, William looking at his phone as he smoldered leaves underfoot, swiveling on the balls of his feet with each step to make the crunch and sizzle.  Who was he texting with?  His mom?  Maybe a girl.  Or boy.  She lost herself in the last of the questions she could dredge up - imagining his turns of phrase, his favorite emoji and soon he was closer than he had ever been, just a few feet away, kicking a ball as he walked.  Scully felt her breath quicken as one of the boys got William’s attention, asked him something.  She had heard his voice only a couple of times, from much further away.

Stella nudged her in the side, drew her attention to the map on her phone.

“Here look,” Stella said.  “Says they’ve a good Caesar salad.  I’m in the mood for that.”

Scully nodded, her ankles brittle as weak stemmed flowers succumbing to first frost. Stella tugged her up from the bench.  She suddenly was very cold and shivered as she wrapped her denim jacket tighter.  She knew Stella’s instincts were right, that it was too strange, too risky for them to just sit there, so close to him.  Don’t turn back, she told herself.  And:

“Don’t turn back,” Stella echoed aloud.

Stella’s hands were in her pockets as they walked, eyes sympathetic but stern. Scully imagined it was how she looked when she brought someone in to identify a body, tell someone their sister had been strangled.

“Mulder’s right about this, you know that.”

Stella’s mention of his name, even in this context of William, or maybe because of it, angered her.  Stella pulled the scarf from her neck and forced it around Scully’s neck.  Loving Stella was no more or less painful than loving someone else, but it was more embarrassing, like loving a ghost or a phantom limb.

“How did you know I asked lots of questions?” 

“Most children do.  And you’re a detective.”

“So are you.”

“Not like you, not a born one.”

“Well you do have a second profession to fall back on.”

“A doctor?”

“A manicurist.”

Scully fake-raps Stella on the wrist and a bit of paint splatters on the crests of her knuckles.

She was grateful that she was not alone, that Stella’s footsteps were falling right beside her own, Stella’s musk-heavy floral scent bedded in the fabric beneath her own chin.  

“I’m glad I got to see him this once,” Stella said. That’s it, William was in the past again, at least for today.

Would she have disliked him as she disliked other children (and dogs?)  She would have been good to him, spoiled him, refused to stop cursing in front of him, probably?

“You and Mulder doing all right?”

“I don’t really want to talk about that.”

“You’ll have to get used to it again at some point.”

“So you’re not going to fight for me,” Scully said, meaning it as a joke, but her voice cracked.

“Fight for you,” Stella repeated dubiously, deciding whether to enter a game or a boxing ring.

Scully was glad they weren’t facing each other now.  She had things she wanted to say.  A fireplace burned somewhere in the neighborhood, the smell of a family gathering around it.

“You sent me back home because of William, didn’t you?  Mulder told you.  That’s why you made me leave you and now I’m home and you don’t think I should see William but you’re not going to try to get me back either. It doesn’t quite track for me.”

She stopped only because her breath ran out.  Stella was silent a moment. Walk, keep walking.  

“I don’t fight for people.”

If not people, then what, Scully wanted to say.  But she bit her lip instead, trying to keep it from trembling as she faced the chill, keeping time as though accidentally, side by side like strangers just off the same bus.  

“You can’t keep doing it.  This was the last time.  All right?”

Scully pursed her lips, shook her head, looked at the sky.  Stella was not going to use her son to change the subject.  

Or were they the same subject?

“You could do worse than Mulder,” Stella said, sharpening the edge on her voice, her weapon of choice, that vicious casualness.  “You love him.  He loves you.  You’re best friends.  He’s very well-endowed, from what I remember.  He can reach things.  Kill bugs.  He found your son for you despite absolute impropriety and deep ethical and legal breaches.”

“Stop,” Scully said, looking away over her other shoulder just to keep from crying.  A cadre of barren trees was ready to march off into winter, leave their dead, once-treasured leaves at their feet.  “Please stop.”

“Fine.”

This was how Stella faced her fears, she knew.  Laughed in the face of murderers, memorized her nightmares, re-read them like fairytales, salivated at the sight of blood, sneered at a plane nose-diving with a slug of Scotch.  

“You aren’t supposed to tell little girls they’re pretty too often,” Stella says with slow, deliberate breaths placed mid-phrase, as though she regrets having to tell anyone this, having to spoil an innocent, unruined worldview where a compliment to a child is merely a compliment, where little girls can be pretty and not suffer for it.

“Why not?”

“Because it makes them think they’re nothing else.”

“Mm,” Scully says and caps the polish.  Stella sits still as stone, hands out in front of her on the magazine, watching the polish dry with more patience than Scully has ever seen her muster.

“Sometimes you just have to let a person go,” Stella said as a boy - not her boy - on a skateboard sailed by.

“Which of you are you talking about now?”

Yes, the same subject.

Stella stopped abruptly, took Scully’s chin in one hand.  Rough enough that Scully might have objected except that it was stopping the incessant spinning she’d felt since they got up from the bench.

“I can’t do what Mulder can do, Dana.  And Mulder can’t do what I’m doing right now, and I don’t live here, so you need to let me say this right fucking now and tell me you hear me.”

Scully tightened her jaw stubbornly.  She felt small but safe here in Stella’s one hand.

“This is the last time you see him until he’s eighteen and you can ask.  Or you’ll regret it.”

Scully nodded, gulped away the tears in her throat, but they were tears of embarrassment, not sadness.  Stella’s grip loosened but did not release her.

“Tell me you hear me.”

Stella finally dropped her hand and held Scully’s.  The skin was bare.  Where was her glove?

“I wish I could have known you then,” Scully says, replacing the fancy second square cap over the little ridged round one.

“Take this,” Stella said and handed her one glove.

“Why?”

Scully heard the footsteps before she saw him and she saw the slightly sad, slightly satisfied smile in Stella’s eyes.  It could be any of them, Scully told herself, any of those kids.

“Excuse me!  Lady!”  

But it was him.  Stella nodded for her to turn.

“This yours?” he asked.

He held the abandoned glove out at arm’s length and Scully choked the sob in her throat.  Despite Stella’s impression, he looked just like Mulder the first day she met him.  First day of school science lab boy, nerdy and needy, sanguine and sweet and unaware of his charms, willing to cut open anything you didn’t want to touch even if he had to hold his breath to do it himself.

“Yes, yeah that’s mine,” she forced herself to say finally, knowing that once she did it would be over.  Her pause made him laugh for some reason.  When she stuck her hand out to take the glove, she must have still looked dazed, lame, because he frowned at her as though she’d made a silly mistake, then stuck his tongue between his molars and held her wrist with one hand, pretending to struggle to put it on her like a toddler.  She laughed, counting the seconds until she could collapse.  She’d have to make it out of the park, clear the area, she knew.

“Thanks,” she said and he nodded, licked his lips, and yes that was all her, turning them chapped to the wind and jogging off to meet his friends, a thirteen year old interrupting his afternoon to return a single glove to two middle aged women he’d never seen before.

Stella immediately took her arm, keeping the pace steady but consistent.  Scully kept up but would not stop looking until Stella looked back.

“What if he didn’t return it?” Scully managed to whisper.

“Why?” Stella asks.

As in why would anyone want to have known a four- and six- and eight-year-old girl like her, freckle faced and quiet eyed, brushing a horse’s back as she stands on a stool, proud and kind and a little strange, inconceivably wise beyond her years.

“Because,” Scully says and picks up Stella’s hands, squeezes her palms between thumb and middle fingers. “Then I could have told you you were everything.”

“I was willing to lose a glove today.”

Chapter 25

He realized he’d left the door unlocked by the way the early November candy corn breeze whistled through the first grade teeth of the patched screen door, winter dragging autumn out by its ankles.  The kitchen was as clean as it had been when Scully lived there, back when she’d tidy it every night before bed, caring for it like she cared for her teeth or her skin.  

It had taken him some time to figure out how to do this.  Time plus a therapist, two bottles of pills on the bathroom counter, and experiments with various citrusy smelling liquids in spray bottles.  Toxic, non-toxic, lemon-mint, gingerberry, when to hit the hard stuff - bleach, served neat.  Certain things like mental health and spotless surfaces had always been Scully’s area of expertise, but in her absence, he’d learned about both.

He’d done this often over the years, sat with William’s baby picture, forearms resting on the kitchen table, staring at it the way most people had learned during those years to stare at their tablets and phones.  He only ever did it alone - waited for Scully to leave and go home, which she always did.  When she lived here, he’d had to wait for her to go to sleep.  He had never told her it wasn’t all research and computer screens wrestling him from their bed.  

The photo paper was pliant from age and attention and it took only ten minutes or so for it to warm between his fingertips so thoroughly that he worried the colors would come off on his fingers, that baby William would disappear from prosperity into the temporariness of his skin.  He used to think of old world boy-things - model rockets and baseball caps, the stuff of fifties sitcoms and Norman Rockwell.  He used to think you belong here.

He used to wonder if William would look at him the same way Scully did when she was thinking aloud, the little line forming between her eyebrows, the squint, the lips tightening in distaste and restraint, or if William was more like him, a dreamer and a rambler.  He knew himself.  He knew Scully.  That William possible, knowable. But now he was a third thing - himself.

The screen door hinge cracked and smacked behind him.  He’d recently tightened the screws and she wasn’t used to its newfound snap.  Stella must have gone back to London.  He had not asked for dates and times - had never done that, not even when they were together.  He’d always had plenty to keep himself busy while Stella was in town.  He more often had trouble stopping that busyness when Stella had gone.  He always made Scully re-announce her presence. “Just me, Mulder.” “I know.”  I can tell by the way the gravel crunches under your tires, can tell by the tone of the wooden moan in the porch floorboards, by the way you breathe on the other side of a weight-bearing wall.  You belong here. “So clean,” she marvelled quietly, as she often did when she stopped by these days to say hello or drop off some pizza or check on him, he knew that’s what it was.  He wondered if someday it would sound like superiority.  He wondered if he’d ever learn to take her for granted again, just a little bit, just enough to relax.

“How’s Stella?” he asked, and considered shuffling the photo out of view as he normally would, but for some reason, this time, he did not.

“She’s good, I think.  You know, Stella doesn’t say much.”  

She dropped William’s folder on the table. She’d had possession of it since the diner. Now she leaned on the back of the chair over him, her fingers snuggling between the wood and his back as she saw the baby picture.  She petted his hair from behind, rested her chin on his head so that her voice came out funny.  He wondered how long she’d been watching from the door.

“I didn’t know you still had that,” she said and her voice sounded strangled by the lump in her throat.

Someday something like that might feel like a vote of underconfidence, a dig… he wished for that someday to come.

“I don’t know what’s harder, having information about him, or when we had nothing,” she said.

“I was just thinking that.”

“Were you?”  

For years, they’d resisted this.  Done everything else together while they mourned the loss of their family in private.  Like they’d had separate roles in that crime.  Like they weren’t serving the same sentence.  Just minutes ago, he’d been making plans to keep doing it forever.  Why?

“I spoke to him,” she said.  “Heard his voice.”

He tried not to look alarmed.

“No, not like that, not about anything.  Just accidentally left something behind and he… he was… good, he’s good.”

“Of course he is, Scully.  He’s yours.”

She came around the chair and leaned her behind against the edge of the table, half-smiled.

“Maybe it’ll be better if we put them away,” she said.  “For us.  And for him.”

Someday this might sound like she was couching her own self-correction in a criticism but tonight it sounded like thank Christ, Stella had talked sense into her.

“I think you’re right.”

“Regular people with normal jobs wouldn’t have even gotten this much.”

“No.”

“But I’m glad you did, Mulder,” she said and this would always mean what it meant tonight.

She picked up the photos - the baby one and the new ones, stared at them as she shuffled to the drawer next to the fridge and laid them in there with their love notes, blank birthday cards, Scotch tape.  Sometimes junk drawers weren’t for junk, they were just for the things you didn’t know what to do with.

She hesitated, then pushed it shut, and then, leaning back against it, hands still behind her on the pull, she looked at him, really looked at him.  Sweet and sexy and yes, a little sad.  Her lips shined, caught the glow of the single source of light in the room over his head.  He held his breath.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me,” she demanded softly.  “That you were sad about it?”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

He waved her over and she came, held his hands like the holster of a carousel horse.  In her eyes, shades of blue spun as she tried not to cry.

“Hard to say goodbye to him all over again.”

He nodded, swallowed, and put one arm around her hips.

“But this time I’m here.”

Her belly shook at his ear, though he heard nothing.  He kissed the hem of her sweater, leaned his chin into the dip of her navel.  She wiped her cheeks dry and then took his face in one wet salted palm, bent to kiss him on the mouth.

Her hands crept around his throat, thumbs at his Adam’s apple.  The room stopped smelling “clean” and smelled instead like her, like the perfume she’d been wearing since the day she first walked into his office, something he had never heard the name of, never heard her mention having to replace.   She was only good at keeping the silliest secrets. He put his hands around the trunk of her right thigh and tugged her towards him.  More need than want is what it was up until then. 

But now her body swayed toward him and she climbed into his lap in her sweatpants.  It had been years and her lips dripped with salt.  She tasted like love and sadness and the future.  He was hard for her, hell, hard for all of it.

“I’m here this time,” he said, pulling his mouth just far enough from hers to speak, letting her tongue catch the chap of his lips.  “I’ll always be here.”

She stopped then and something passed behind her eyes, a shift of color behind blue-tinted glass, a sheet in the wind, a wave of blonde hair, a silk shirt.  Would she think of Stella whenever they kissed, when he made love to her on this table?  Would he ever not wonder?  

“Always is a long time,” she said without hiding the hint of mournfulness, of missing something, and he nodded.

“I didn’t say she’d be gone.  I just said I’ll be here.”

She frowned, breath quickening even as her mind slowed.

“Mulder?”

“We’re too old to give up things we love,” he said and meant it. Who cared what she thought of when he kissed her?

She unzipped her sweatshirt, pushed it back off her shoulders.

He placed a kiss on her neck, stripped her naked from the waist up.  She moved his lips back to her own and dropped her weight deeper into the cusp of his pelvis.  With their noses pushed together and her shoulder blades clipped toward one another over the table, she breathed into his mouth.

“God, I missed you,” he said.

“Fuck me, Mulder.”  

Her hair frizzed in his fist as she pulled her hamstrings tight atop his quadriceps.  The grace of youth was gone but it was replaced with something better.  This is what age looked like.  This is what fixed mistakes looked like.

One hand on her lower back, hooked into the back of her pants, the tag silky between his thumb and her skin, he pulled her closer and tighter, sucking her into his mouth, savoring her like a sublingual pill, like he was waiting for her to melt under his tongue and be absorbed into his blood.  

She arched and stretched, placing herself over him with such anatomical precision that he might as well be inside her rather than on either side of four layers of clothes.  Her body was hot and impatient against his belly as his fingers slipped into her pants and under her thigh, past the cotton seam of her underwear.  She hummed in his ear, fit her body more closely over his hand.  

He lifted her at the waist, laid her back on the table, pulled her bottoms off in a swift but clumsy motion.  He leaned over to kiss her cheeks, her neck, her chest. She bent a knee and brought the top of her foot to brush his cock through his pants, rubbed the sharp crest of her instep against him until it hurt.

“Fuck me, Mulder,” she said again, the solid edges of her voice absorbed by the wood at her back.  She squeezed his arms. “Easy, baby,” he said and as he entered her, her eyes watered and a tear rolled out onto the table, crystal clear.  She’d come over for dinner and television, sweatpants and chopsticks, but he had trapped her with his clean surfaces and exposed wounds.   Her body shuddered, shoulders convulsing, shrugging off the past, making herself new for him.  “So tight.  How are you still so tight for me?”

She grinned wickedly.

“She only has so many fingers.”

And he laughed, bit her neck as he fucked her slowly.

They’d made their baby just like this, in a bed rather than on a table, but just like this, with this much love and intent.  He’d known right away that it had worked, known just looking at her collapsed on his torso. “Oh my God,” she whispered as the edge of the table met the back of her knees.  She pinched his t-shirt to her in both fists, then slammed one hand down hard next to her hip.  He moved his hands from table to body, alternatingly bracing his weight and cupping her breasts, aligning her hips and brushing her lips, fucking her until she white knuckled the slab he used to eat his depressed dinners on.

She pulled herself up against him, gripped his neck and pushed her feet against the seat of the chair behind him for leverage.  Sometimes it upset him how little he had to do to make her come.  Sometimes but not now.

“Look at me like you used to,” she said and he spun around to sit on the table, let her put her knees down on either side of him.   “Look at me so I can make you come.”

They did it together, like they did most things, their work and their driving and their arguing and their meals and now their goodbyes to their son.  Soft staccatoed moans and her pelvic muscles squeezed and tugged him and he peeled the cheeks of her ass so that she’d take him deeper and then the rhythm of their bodies broke like a fever, madness taking over, breath tangling, toxic and medicinal at once, words all nonsense and undictionaried.   If she was thinking of Stella too, that didn’t matter, that was not a bad thing, because nothing associated with this could be bad.

He held her until he went soft inside her, and she smiled - her favorite magic trick, his dick going from hard to soft and back again, biology and anatomy in motion at her whim. When they got up, she picked up her clothes, tucked them under one arm, and led him up the staircase naked, her rear silhouette incarnadine with freckles and friction.  He followed her three steps behind, watching each calf raise each heel carefully on the edge of each plank, soles searching the wood grains for the stamps that showed where her footsteps belonged.

[hayleysstark]

Hug

Words: 2405 Warnings: None Summary: Merlin had a tendency to say some strange things, but--

"You," Merlin jutted his chin out obstinately, and jabbed a resolute finger at Arthur, "owe me a hug."

--but this was by far the strangest. 

Notes: I have literally zero explanation for this bit of schmaltz, except that it occurred to me that, if Arthur had lived long enough to hear all of Merlin's magical adventures, Merlin would have 100000000% told him about the Fomorrah incident, and promptly demanded a redo hug once he heard about the one he didn't remember. GIVE MERLIN EMRYS A HUG 2KFOREVER ARTHUR.

Read on Fanfiction or AO3

Merlin had a tendency to say some strange things.

Well, he said stupid things, for a start, things like dollophead or clotpole or, once even goosebrain—words that weren't actually words at all, just a whole bunch of nonsensical gibberish, made-up, a few sounds he'd just smashed together when he felt he'd been using prat too much. He said treasonous things, too, of course, but that bit went without saying—he said things that could get him—should get him, if Arthur was being honest with himself, the things Merlin said should get tossed in the stocks or dungeons or even outright hung for even letting the words pass his lips—things like Arthur, if you get mud on your armor like this again, I'm going to kill you, or Arthur, if you try to go on that dangerous quest, I'll drug your breakfast and lock you in your chambers and I'll tell all the guards you're enchanted so they know not to listen to you, or once, even a Arthur, the next time you say we aren't going to get ambushed by bandits and we get ambushed by bandits, I'm going to cut off your mouth and sew it back on inside out and upside down—that one alone could have earned him about a thousand death sentences, but Arthur had been, much as he hated to admit it, highly entertained by it all the same.

Look, Arthur was trying to make a point here. The point was this. Merlin said things. Stupid things. Treasonous things. Things that would have had Arthur's father rolling in his grave should they ever reach his ears—I'm not going to enchant a flagon of ale that never runs out for you, Gwaine, or how about if I just turn Lord Rodney into a toad and be done with it, come on, Arthur, he's insufferable, or damn dragon's being cryptic again—

But. But Arthur had gotten used to it. Merlin had magic, and Merlin had a dragon—two dragons, sorry—and Merlin was, whatever the idiot's own insistence to the contrary, some kind of—err, royalty to other sorcerers. Ruler. Monarch. Lord, maybe. King, perhaps. Arthur didn't know, and Merlin outright refused to admit to it, even when the druids' ambassadors dropped to their knees at the sight of him, and he turned several different shades of red in quick succession.

Getting off the point. Merlin said strange things, that was the point, things about destiny and magic and spells and dragons and coins and once and future kings. Arthur really didn't want to get into all of it.

But this—

"You," Merlin jutted his chin out obstinately, and jabbed a resolute finger at Arthur, "owe me a hug."

—this was by far the strangest.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?" Of course, prophesized warlock or not, Merlin could be a bit of a girl at times, but this was taking it a bit far, even for him. Maybe he was hearing things?

"You owe me," Merlin repeated, without missing a beat, and he seemed so indignant about the whole thing, Arthur was almost tempted to laugh, "you owe me a hug!"

Arthur blinked. All right, so he wasn't hearing things. "What?"

"You hugged me," Merlin said, the perfect picture of dignified affront, "you hugged me, and I don't even remember it!"

"Merlin," Arthur set the latest report from Sir Tristan facedown on the desk—he had a feeling he wasn't going to be getting to the end of it anytime soon—and leaned across the polished surface to get a better look at the man, "have you been on the cider?" It was a bit of a low blow, and Arthur knew it, what with all the times Merlin had never actually been in the tavern, but it was the only rational conclusion he could draw.

Merlin had a way of looking at people, sometimes, like he was seriously weighing the merits of turning them into a roach. This was one of those times. "No, I haven't," he said, with admirable composure. "And you know that, so stop being an ass, Arthur, it suits you a little too well."

"Merlin—!" Speaking of things that could get the man a thousand death sentences. Arthur decided perhaps the stocks were getting a little lonely as of late.

"Look, Gwaine and I were talking—"

"Oh," Arthur relaxed, and settled back in his seat. "That's it, then." He picked Sir Tristan's report back up. An invisible force plucked the paper from his fingers, and sent it fluttering out of his reach, facedown on the floor at Merlin's feet.

"Merlin!" Arthur glanced around for something to throw. Perhaps the inkwell?

"Listen!" Merlin put his hands on his hips. Had anyone ever thought to tell him how he looked nothing so much as an angry housewife when he did that? "Do you remember that time when we were out on patrol, and we got attacked by bandits—"

"Could you be more specific?"

"—and," Merlin continued, with another should-I-turn-him-into-a-roach look, "you and I got separated from everyone else, and I got hit by a mace, and then there was that big rock fall, and you thought I'd got lost—"

"Vividly," Arthur said flatly. It wasn't a day he liked to think about, to put it lightly.

"—only I didn't actually get lost, remember, I told you, Morgana found me, and she put that snakey thing in my neck that made me try to kill you and—"

"The point, Merlin."

The idiot must have realized he was rambling, because he stopped short. He even had the grace to blush. "Well." He huffed. "Gwaine tells me you hugged me."

Oh. So that's what they were getting at, then. Arthur's face began to burn like fire. "Gwaine," he said, as seriously as he could, and oh, he hoped to the gods Merlin couldn't see the flush crawling up his neck and flooding into his cheeks, "is about the most unreliable source in the entire kingdom, Merlin."

Merlin must have expected the resistance, because he countered at once. "He seemed pretty sure of himself when he told me."

"Yes, and how many had he knocked back by that point?" Arthur sniped. Logic told him he should just swallow his pride and cop to it—fine, all right, so he'd hugged Merlin, but it had been quick and one-armed and decidedly very manly, and also, he'd thought the idiot was dead for the past three days, so that had to count for something, right?—but logic also said that if he did swallow his pride and cop to it, Merlin would never let it go, and. Well. He couldn't have that.

"He was sober!"

"And you're sure it was Gwaine?"

"Arthur!" Merlin's hands were on his hips again. They were back to the angry-housewife stage.

Arthur bit back a sigh. "Look, Merlin, not that I don't love a nice stroll down memory lane every now and then, but I fail to see what this has to do with—"

"You hugged me!"

"That's still up for debate."

"And I don't even remember it!"

"Common occurrence for things that didn't happen." Arthur wondered if it was worth it to get up and get the report off the floor, or if he ought to just start on a new one.

"I don't believe it." Merlin collapsed into the seat opposite Arthur. "The one time you hugged me, and I don't even remember it."

"Merlin," Arthur dragged in a breath, and rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose, "if you're going to insist on spouting nonsense—"

The last dragonlord, the slayer of the High Priestess Nimeuh and the immortal sorcerer Cornelius Sigan and gods knew who else, the ruler-slash-monarch-slash-lord-slash-king to the magical community, the almighty warlock Emrys, gave what Arthur could only describe as a pout. "I deserve a hug that I remember."

Arthur ran out of patience. "I'm not going to hug you!"

The almighty warlock Emrys pouted harder. "I could die tomorrow, and if I did, I would go to my grave without even the memory of—"

"Merlin, you're immortal."

At least that seemed to pull Merlin from his sulk, because he snorted, and sat up a little straighter. "Yeah, I'm immortal if no one, y'know, stabs me, or poisons me, or shoots me, or starves me—"

"Yes, yes, I get the point," Arthur waved a dismissive hand, and tried not to dwell on the image the flippant words had conjured up of a bleeding and poisoned and arrow-ridden Merlin. "Look, I've got quite a lot of work to do, in case you haven't noticed, we can't all sit around practicing spells and riding dragons and getting worshipped by druids—"

Merlin turned red. "I-I'm not—!"

"—so, if you won't leave, why don't you make yourself useful?" Arthur nodded at his favorite pair of boots at the foot of the bed, the leather tops still crusted over with a fair bit of mud from their last patrol.

Merlin slumped from his chair, slumped over to the boots, slumped to the floor at the foot of Arthur's bed, and slumpily picked up the boots.

Slumpily. Arthur stifled a groan. Damn it, Merlin, you've got me using your idiotic made-up words now.

Arthur shook his head and returned to his reports. All thoughts of Merlin's terrible influence aside, maybe now he could actually get some proper work done and—

His thoughts scattered to a million different corners of his mind when the soft, unmistakable swish of coarse bristles on dirty leather met his ears. Oh, for gods' sakes, what on earth was the idiot playing at now—?

"Merlin," Arthur looked up, "what are you doing?"

"Er—?" Merlin lifted his head, his eyes decidedly on the hesitant side. "Polishing your boots? Like—like you said?"

Arthur frowned at the familiar sight—Merlin, sprawled at the foot of the bed, his back to the wooden frame, a polishing brush in one hand and Arthur's left boot balanced on his knee. It wasn't something he'd ever expected to see again, was it, not after—and he'd made it quite clear, hadn't he, he'd made it clear that Merlin could—? Well, perhaps he hadn't, it wasn't like they had really talked about it much, it wasn't like it was high on anyone's list of priorities when the truth had first come out, but—well—never mind, never mind, he'd set it to rights. "I—I don't mind, you know."

Merlin stared back at him blankly. "Mind?"

"The—erm—" Arthur held up a hand, and rather awkwardly wiggled his fingers. It wasn't anything like the baffling, complex, fluid sorts of motions Merlin did when he was casting spells, but the king was fairly confident it got the point across. "The magic. You can use the magic. To—to polish," he added, just to be absolutely clear. "I thought that's what—I thought that's what you'd—you know."

"Oh." Merlin looked down at the brush in his hands like he hadn't even realized it was there. "All right, then." He shrugged, and he went back to polishing the boots. By hand. With the brush.

Arthur ran out of patience. To be fair, it wasn't something he'd ever had in spades. "Really,Merlin?" He pushed his chair back from the desk, stalked over to the idiot—all crouched on the floor with his long legs tucked up to keep them out of the way—and snatched the half-done boot from his grasp. "For all your incessant whining about chores, I'd have thought you'd jump at the chance."

A small smile flicked at the corners of Merlin's lips. "Well." He made a wide grab for the boot, and missed spectacularly. His abysmal aim, his nonexistent coordination, his complete lack of athleticism—the only things about him that hadn't changed. The reminder that somewhere inside the all-powerful sorcerer who spoke six different languages and cast magic more extraordinary than any High Priestess could ever hope to achieve, somewhere inside Emrys, there was still Merlin.

"I like," Merlin said, softly, "to do it by hand. I'm happy to be your servant," he added, sincerely, not a trace of mockery or mirth in his voice. "Until the day I die." The smile bloomed into full, brilliant being across his face. "It's an honor to serve you, Sire."

It wasn't the first time Merlin had said something like this—of course it wasn't the first time Merlin had said something like this, the man was an absolute girl's petticoat at the best of times, always with the talking, and the feelings, and the heart on his sleeve sort of thing—but this was the first time he had said it with such feeling, and over something so simple. The immortal warlock Emrys called it an honor to clean the mud from his boots, and Arthur had to stop, and swallow hard, before he could speak again.

"You—" say stupid things and mad things and treasonous things and you have magic and two dragons and druids worship you even though you cry when you see baby rabbits and you could rule a kingdom but you want to be a servant, you want to be my servant, you think it's an honor to be my servant— "—are such a girl, Merlin."

And maybe Arthur was a girl, too, because—

—well, because he maybe pulled Merlin into a hug.

[sopewriters]

dream within a dream

Pairing: Yoongi X Reader ; Jungkook X Reader

Genre: smut, angst; college au

Word Count: 9000

Note + Warning(s): unhealthy relationships, somewhat dub-con in the middle. additional warning for potentially shit writing because this was completed through multiple short bursts

music inspo: demons + nervous

title inspired by Edgar Allen Poe’s poem. Hehe.

His name is Min Yoongi.

You notice him on the first day of your Intro to Calculus class. He’s sitting in the furthest seat from the front, hunched in on himself with his glasses perched precariously on his nose as he skims through some sort of book. Even as he does that, he looks stunning; all sharp edges and dark, gorgeous eyes.

You figure it must be your math textbook and, for a brief moment, pity this beautiful boy. No one ever buys those; he’s clearly just blown his money. Looking closer, though, you’re immediately proven wrong.

He’s reading a rather large book, so it can’t possibly be math. You can see EDGAR ALLEN POE emblazoned across the cover in fancy lettering and so, you realize with a start, he must be reading poems. He’s even got a little pencil in his hand, letting it run over the ink printed into the pages, and you wonder—

“What’re you looking at?” An elbow jostles you uncomfortably underneath your ribs, and you start a little in surprise; your friend is looking at you with a question in their eyes.

“Nothing.” You hope to god your cheeks haven’t given you away. “I can’t wait to leave, that’s all.”

“Relax!” They laugh, mirth sparkling in their eyes, “We haven’t even started class! It’s probably not even that bad.”

“I know.” You chance a glance back at the boy, eyes widening when he looks up, meeting your gaze head-on; it’s electric and you let your eyes drop immediately. “I’ve got a good feeling.”

  He always sits in the same spot. Wearing those same glasses as he doesn’t pay attention to lecture, as he pours his efforts onto the words branded into that lumpy book he constantly carries around. As he looks at the book like it’s the center of his world.

You wonder how it’d feel like if he were looking at you someone like that. Would their heart beat out of their chest as that heavy gaze keeps them rooted to the spot?

Your finger taps against your wrist as you bite your lip, and you force yourself to look back to the front of your classroom.

You can’t stare at him, you tell yourself sternly, that’s creepy and completely unnecessary.

But you can’t stop your eyes from seeking out those emotionless features, those blazing eyes, the rings glinting prettily as they straddle those slender fingers.

You wonder what it’d feel like to wrap your hands around his. But that’s invasive, considering you don’t talk to him, ever.

You really should.

  The first time you see him in a place that’s not the classroom, your footsteps falter as you freeze in surprise. It’s not as though you don’t know he exists outside class, it’s just that…seeing it with your own eyes is a little startling. Though, it shouldn’t be surprising that he’s in the library of all places.

You bite your lip when you see that he’s got that book of his with him, and that he’s writing again. Except, this time, it’s in a blank notebook splayed across the table. You don’t know what comes over you then—perhaps something in you subconsciously decided it was tired of the inaction—but your feet march you to the poetry section so you can grab the first book you find—a collection of Robert Frost. Your body steers you to the boy’s table, even as your brain screams at it to stop, let’s just leave now, and your hands drop the book on the oak wood with a soft thunk.

This obviously draws the boy’s attention, and he blinks up at you in thinly veiled surprise, the expression quickly filtering off his features for something a little more disinterested.

You say nothing, heart pounding ridiculously against your chest; instead, you just drop into the chair that you’ve just pulled out, and flip open the book, choosing not to answer the unasked question posed by your unwilling companion.

You try not to yawn, by the time you’ve finished the first poem. The words are jumbling up in your head, seared into the back of your eyes, and you wonder what was going through Frost’s mind while he wrote these… things. Poetry never makes sense, never will. You’ll probably never like it, so you don’t understand why you’ve done this to yourself.

“You’ve been staring at that page for a while now.” Whatever it is that you expect, it isn’t for the boy to suddenly speak up, an amused glint in his eyes. Oh, those pretty eyes. “Do you really like Frost that much?”

You have half the mind to ask how he knows you’re reading Frost, but luckily remember that it’s probably on the cover.

Instead of completely embarrassing yourself, you just shrug.

“A friend recommended me to start here.” You say, pulling the excuse from your ass. “I’ve never really read poetry before so.”

There. Not a complete lie.

There’s a pause as the boy narrows his eyes at you, and your throat dries up, goosebumps breaking out across your skin.

“What’re you reading?” You hope to distract him and are relieved when he takes the bait and gives you some much-needed room to breathe.

He doesn’t say anything, just tilts up his book so you can see the cover with a lazy smile tugging at his lips. It doesn’t send a jolt of excitement up your spine; definitely not. Your hands tremble as they turn over a page in your own book.

“Lovecraft?” You question as steadily as your voice allows, and thankfully the boy takes it at face value and doesn’t push it.

“Yeah.” The smile spears into something sharper, a smirk. “Fucking genius.”

The sound of his voice saying the expletive like that doesn’t do anything to stop the trembling in your arms, and the intense expression that crosses his cold features doesn’t help matters along.

“Probably not for my level.” You joke hesitantly, offering him an unsure smile.

The boy stares at you, and you take the time to glance over his dark locks, swept to the side. A beat later, he sets the book down, an indiscernible expression on his face as he inquires, “Would you want to learn?”

“Yeah, it sounds fun.” The smile doesn’t leave your lips.

Something lights in his eyes and you feel like you’ve made the right choice. Warmth courses through you as his smile turns more genuine.

“Yoongi.” He introduces himself, sticking his hand out, and you can’t believe this is actually happening. Sometimes, spontaneity really can pay off.

“ ________ .” You say back with a grin, and take the proffered hand.

It feels warm and right.

  It’s when you’re trudging back home after a particularly devastating writing class that you run into Jeon Jungkook.

Your back aches—especially the area between your shoulders—and you can’t wait to collapse into your bed and hopefully regain some sense of feeling in your muscles. The strap of your backpack feels tight as you slowly make your way along the sidewalk, face betraying how exhausted you are.

Your earbuds are comfortable, having been popped in at the very start of your journey back home, and you tiredly bob your head to the soothing rhythm of the song being blasted through them. In this world, it’s just you and the music filtering through your ears, and—

“Fuck, look out!”

You’re barely given time to react when a hard, warm body crashes into your own, sending you crashing onto the pavement with an undignified squawk leaving your lips.

“Fuck!” The same voice says again, and while you’re normally a reasonably tempered person, you’re tired and want to go home, damn it. “I’m so—”

“Fuck off.” You say brusquely, picking yourself up off the ground and whirling around to stare the guy in the eye. He’s easy on the eyes, dark, ruffled hair and smooth skin, but your knees ache and your elbow stings and you’ve got a huge zero in your patience reserves.

His eyes widen, like he can’t believe what you’re saying, and a quick glance tells you that he’s carrying a skateboard; that only serves to fuel your anger, the flames flickering in your eyes.

“You think that just because you can zip around on your pretty little skateboard wherever you want, that it gives you the right to nearly mow someone down!” Your voice pitches as you grow more agitated, the sun making your skin prickle uncomfortably. “Well, new flash: it doesn’t. Fuck you, man.”

The boy’s staring you with shocked eyes—ha, like he didn’t expect to get called out on his bullshit—before an anger stirs up in his dark brown irises. That’s exactly the kind of reaction you should’ve expected, honestly.

“Okay, you don’t need to be such a bitch about it.” His mouth, pink and soft, twists unprettily as he stares heatedly at you. “It was a fucking accident—”

“Oh, was it?” You mock, crossing your arms defensively as you let your rage swim free. “You have fucking legs, so you might as well use them, you entitled little prick.”

His eyes narrow, and you can see his jaw clench, and stare smugly back at him, eyebrow raised. He’s not actually going to punch you or anything, not unless he wants his ass reported. And, honestly, you’re not afraid to do exactly that.

“Fuck off.” Is all he says, mirroring your words from before, as he grabs his skateboard and brushes past you towards one of the buildings, and you laugh scornfully at his retreating back.

“Yeah, run away!” You call spitefully, bristling as the boy doesn’t even bother calling anything back. “Rude ass little—”

You cut yourself off with a huff, stomping your way back to your building, closing the door shut behind you with a loud slam. Dropping your stuff on the ground, you let yourself fall onto the sheets face-first, wondering why on earth you always have to deal with assholes.

Not Yoongi though, obviously. Yoongi’s…he’s nice. A little intimidating, a little cold sometimes but, ultimately, a decent guy. Not like some people who go around running people over with their skateboard.

Alright, enough thinking. You need to relax and forget all about this horrible encounter, and the most obvious thing you can do right now is ignore the mountainous pile of homework you’ve got to do and go watch a bunch of vines. Or something.

  It’s only two and a half hours later that you realize—

“He was going to say sorry, fuck!” You whisper-yell in horror, planting your face in your hands and bemoaning, “Why do I always have the shittiest luck?”

  Of course, you receive no answer. And, this time, maybe you don’t deserve it.

  “You okay?” Yoongi asks you one day, as the two of you sit across from each other in companionable silence during library hours; the fact that he even cares enough to ask sends warmth blooming in your chest.

His eyes are blank, as they peer at you over the pages of his newest book, another one of Poe’s collections, and it makes you both uneasy and a little heated under your skin, sparks sizzling as they race to the very tips of your fingers.

“Yes.” You say, then frown. “No. Not really.”

“Oh.” Yoongi says, and turns back to his book. You bite your lip, and he sighs. “It’s okay if you want to go home early today.”

“Oh.” You parrot similarly, and nod a little listlessly. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

You shove your books into your bag, standing with little trouble even as the weight on your back tries to pull you back down. You linger a little uncertainly, waiting for Yoongi to look up from his book; which he eventually does, with an eyebrow cocked.

“Bye.” You give him a smile, and he gives you a non-committal sigh in return. Taking that as your cue to leave, you walk out of the library, headed straight home.

It still feels a little surreal, honestly; you can’t believe Min Yoongi actually hangs out with you. It feels a little like being star struck, every time you’re in his presence; and, how could you not be? Min Yoongi looks like he’s been crafted lovingly from the hands of God himself, and is certainly smarter than he is gorgeous—and that’s saying something.

But even the giddiness of spending time with Yoongi can’t inflate your mood long enough. You’re not even half-way home when you bite your lip, guilt beginning to stir up in you as you recall that boy from a week ago; the one who knocked you off your feet, quite literally, with his skateboard. Regardless of your temper at the time, you shouldn’t have snapped, and you really want to apologize; but, now that you’ve worked up the resolve to do that, he’s nowhere to be found.

As though on cue—and, seriously, is your life a drama waiting to happen? —a yell sounds out; this time, you’re not tired, and you’re actually prepared to essentially dive aside to not get run over. The sound of wheels hurtling along a sidewalk can be heard, and feet drag against the ground to slow themselves down.

“Oh, it’s you.” A familiar voice says, displeasure evident. You look up in slight disbelief to see the boy from last week, like he’s just magically appeared because you just thought about him. “Are you actually going to let me apo—”

“Sorry!” You cut him off, making his eyes go wide; your eyes, on the other hand, quickly drop down, trailing past the rips in his jeans easily to land on his ratty sneakers instead. “I was in a terrible mood last week and I took it out on you, and that was unfair of me I know, I’m really sorry—”

“Whoa there, slow down.” Hands come to grasp your shoulders, and concerned eyes peer into your own; you shift uncomfortably until he gets the message, letting go of you rather quickly with burning cheeks. “Uh, sorry. But no, it’s alright, don’t worry about it, I guess.”

It’s strange, seeing him so weird and quiet. Granted, you’ve only seen him once, and he was yelling at you, at the time, but he doesn’t really seem like the kind of person who’d be withdrawn at all.

“No, it’s really not.” You frown, diverting your attention to what’s happening at present. “I shouldn’t have done that, even if I was tired.”

“Well.” He says after a moment, “What do you want me to say?”

It then occurs to you that you have absolutely no idea.

“Um,” You draw out, eyebrows knitting together as you try and figure something out, “Let me buy you coffee?”

At his wide eyes, you quickly backtrack with, “N-not like that, I meant... as a-an APOLOGY!”

“Alright, alright, I got it!” He laughs, eyes crinkling up; and you notices he looks a little bit like a bunny when he does that. “Calm down!”

“I’m calm!” You insist, making him devolve further into snickers; you sigh, knowing you’re probably already going to regret this. “Anyways. Coffee, tomorrow at 4?”

“Sure.” He grins disarmingly at you, and you roll your eyes at his suave moves. “I’m Jungkook, by the way. Jeon Jungkook.”

“I’m ________ .” You offer, and that’s that.

 Except, you realize the next day, that’s not that at all. You hate yourself for doing this to yourself; you’ve entirely forgotten that weekdays at 4 are reserved solely for library time with Yoongi. And, there isn’t a time of the day when you’d ever consider missing out on it.

Yet, here you are.

Guilt churns away at you as you cautiously eye Yoongi during math class, in the morning. As usual, he’s penning something in his journal, those same glasses sitting precariously on the bridge of his nose, and just the sight of him is enough to send sadness broiling in your gut. You can’t believe you’re going to do this – but you’ve done this to yourself, so you have to stick it out.

Class drags on and on and, as it does, the anxiousness brimming in your gut rises, higher and higher until your hands are shaking on your thighs.

You’re going to do this.

You intercept Yoongi before he can even leave, dismissing your friend’s startled call of your name with a wave of your hand; the boy comes to a stop before you and raises an eyebrow.

“I won’t be able to make it to the library today.” You say in a huff. Yoongi’s impassive expression remains unchanged. “But I’ll definitely be back tomorrow!”

“Okay.” Yoongi shrugs, shifting the strap of his bookbag on his shoulder and tilting his head. “If that’s all…?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah!” You stumble out of the way, something uneasy turning in your heart as you watch him leave. Biting your lip, you ask yourself what you even expected; Yoongi’s obviously come to associate library time with actually reading and not hanging out with you. It’s fine, expected even.

You just need to try harder.

“What was that about?” You startle when your friend’s voice sounds out from behind you; spinning around, you give a bashful chuckle.

“He’s my library buddy.” You confess to them. “You remember I told you about him?”

“Oh. Oh.” They seem unimpressed for the most part, and you catch up to them as they begin walking out. “He’s Min Yoongi, huh?”

“Yeah.” You grin at them, but it falters when you see a strange expression twist their features. “…what’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing.” They shake their head, pushing open the door. “Nothing at all. Excited for your date?”

“It’s not a date!” You exclaim, and they laugh, clearly not buying it. “It’s not, oh my god!”

You only have eyes for one person, after all.

“Sure, if you say so.” They smile good-naturedly. “Let me know how your date with Jungkook goes, yeah?”

“It’s not a date.” You huff out again, annoyed. “But whatever.”

“Scary.”

“Shut up!”

  “Hey.” You hurry to where Jungkook’s sat, sliding into the booth opposite to him. “Sorry for changing the location so last minute.”

“It’s fine.” The evening sun casts a light that softens the lines of his face, highlights the warmth in his eyes as he shakes his head with a small smile. “I was in the area, so it actually worked out.”

“Oh, good.” You let out a relieved sigh. “Apparently the coffee house is being remodeled now; I only found out today. Sorry again.”

“It’s fine, don’t sweat it.” His grin grows. “Besides, a diner works for me. Feels more like a date this way, huh?”

Not this again.

“Shut up, you aren’t funny.” You grumble at him, hiding your face behind the menu as he shakes with laughter. “Anyway, did you find something you want?”

“I’ve already ordered.” He says with a straight face, and cracks up at the indignation on your face. “Nah, I was just messing with you! I only got here a couple of minutes before you did.”

“Cool. Choice of drink?” You ask tersely, already regretting this. To think, you could be sitting in peaceful silence with Yoongi directly across from you…

“Don’t be like that.” Jungkook sighs, though amusement still flickers in his golden-brown irises. “Anyway, I’ll get some fries and banana milk.”

“What?” You stare at him, stupefied. Your earlier irritation has been struck in one fatal blow.

“It’s on the menu.” He shrugs and, to your shock when you squint at the offending words, he’s right.

What kind of diner…?

“Oh wow.” You say, eyes wide. “Okay then.”

Calling over the waitress, you rattle off your orders in succession, watching her leave with an air of satisfaction because – hey, you sounded like a Competent Adult, for once.

Then, Jungkook laughs softly. “A chocolate shake, really?”

“Hey, you got banana milk.” You defend. “And besides, chocolate shakes are good for all ages! They’re a classic! They can’t ever let you down! You could literally give me one any time of the day and I’d drink it, they’re that—”

“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands in surrender, and your cheeks heat when you realize you’ve been blabbering on about chocolate shakes, oh my god. “Hey now, none of that. It’s cute when you ramble.”

“I’m sorry.” You groan, dropping your head on the table with a muted thump. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, oh god.” Jungkook reaches over and ruffles your hair lightly, making you perk up and glare at him. “Anyway, tell me about yourself. I feel like we’ve only really just yelled at each other, and that’s not a lot to go on.”

“Right, well, there’s nothing much to say.” You say unsurely, still in the process of patting down your hair. “I’m majoring in ___________, I hate college right now, and the only thing that makes it all bearable is—”

You cut yourself off, cheeks burning. You can’t believe you were about to say Min Yoongi, right to a stranger’s face.

“…chocolate shakes?” Jungkook offers quietly, wearing a knowing grin as you duck your head bashfully.

“Yeah. Shakes.” Your hands twist into your shirt anxiously, and desperate to change you ask, “what about you?”

“Oh, there isn’t much for me to say either.” His fingers drum at the table. “I’m an econ major, but I’m only really doing it for my parents. What I really want is to be a pro skateboarder.”

Your eyes widen, and your first instinct is to laugh; this guy can’t be serious, can he? But, then you see the earnestness in his eyes, the determination in the set of his mouth and the retort dies on your lips.

“That sounds really great.” You say sincerely, looking right at him. “Do you have any idea how you’re going to get there?”

There’s a pleased curve to Jungkook’s lips as he leans back. Thanking the waitress as she sets down your drinks and food, he pops a fry into his mouth. “It’s all about getting good, first. I can’t be super rusty and expect anyone to take an interest in me, can I?”

“I guess not.” You acquiesce with a half-smile, taking a sip of your drink and – ah, heaven on earth. This is true nectar.

“That good?” Jungkook’s voice cuts into your daydream. “You look like you’ve just experienced nirvana.”

“Maybe.” You shrug, unable to be embarrassed right now. “Too bad you’ve only got that banana milk, huh?”

“Hey, don’t diss the subtle flavor of my banana milk!” Jungkook defends playfully, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Anywho – tell me more about yourself. What classes are you taking this semester?”

And, as you begin to regale him with tales of your misfortune with your Intro to Research professor, time seems to fly by. At the end, you’re loathe to leave, and he notices, smile showing all teeth.

“We can meet the day after tomorrow.” He promises, squeezing your shoulder amicably. “Around five, same place?”

“Sure.” You agree; and this time, that really is that.

  There’s something different about Yoongi today.

His gaze isn’t liquid as usual, doesn’t gloss over you as it usually does. Instead, it feels dark, almost heavy, as you take your regular seat across from him.

You bite your lip, heat stirring in your chest at the sight of Yoongi’s eyes, so black, so bottomless as they seem to devour you whole.

“What… what did you pick out today?” You ask hesitantly, breath stuttering when his gaze doesn’t shift away.

Finally, his eyes cut away, and you can breathe for a moment.

“Tennyson.” He answers, tone curt; then, he looks up again. “But you’re not really interested in that, are you?”

You freeze. “What?”

Yoongi snaps his book closed, leveling you with a look. “I know you didn’t come here for poetry, that day. You’re here for something else entirely, aren’t you?”

“N-No, that’s not it—” Your lungs seize up in your chest, and your head pounds. “Yoongi—”

“I don’t mind.” He says nonchalantly, and that puts a swift stop to your stutters. You can only watch as he types something into his phone, barely able to react when your phone buzzes quietly in your pocket. His voice is low, hushed as he leans over to your side of the table, “come to the address I texted you tonight, 7PM. If you do, I’ll assume we’re on the same page.

“If not…” He trails off, getting up, and you can only watch as he, for the first time, properly smiles. “Then I guess this is good bye.”

He leaves, just like that, and it takes you all of ten minutes to muster up the courage to look at your phone: and find that he’s sent you a location.

To an apartment. His apartment.

Oh lord.

  He greets you at the door with a lazy smirk, beckoning you in with an easy curl of his fingers.

“Did you find the place easy?” You can barely hear his voice over the pounding of your heart. You’re in Yoongi’s apartment, and you can hardly believe it; much less the reason you’re even here.

“Y-Yeah.” You only remember to answer when Yoongi clears his throat. “I could, th-thanks.”

You let out a startled noise when hands come from behind you to cup your hips and draw you into a firm chest.

“Hey, relax. It’s just me.” Yoongi’s soft voice breathes into your ear; and it definitely does not help you relax, of all things. The blush that rises to your cheeks is the strongest it’s ever been. “God, you’re so fucking pretty. C’mere.”

His hand comes to tilt up your jaw, and you can feel the heat of his body as his lips slide over yours, soft, and so, so hot. It’s like he’s devour you, and you’re helpless to do anything but let him, let the soft caresses he showers on your sides mold your body to his, soft sounds leaving your lips as he trails his mouth over your throat, hands rubbing at your thighs.

It’s all too much, and you don’t even realize you’re moving till you’re falling backwards, hitting the mattress with a moan, Yoongi’s shirtless form following suit. Hazily, you reach out a hand, and give a small whine in protest when his hand intercepts yours, pinning you down by the wrists as he lavishes more kisses on your puffy lips.

“Are you tested?’ He breaks away, sliding his hands under you to cup your ass, drawing a low moan from your throat as he slides your jeans off and the chill slowly begins to seep into your skin. That quickly changes when Yoongi’s hands run up your legs, igniting fire in your veins.

In response to his question, you shake his head, something tight in your chest when he clicks his tongue.

“Do that soon.” You can’t hold back a gasp when he cups your crotch, fingers rubbing against the wet patch in your underwear. “I really want to fill you up here; I bet you’d feel so good around me, too.”

The thought of Yoongi actually filling you up makes your knees grow weak, your legs tremble. His touch, in itself, is fiery hot, and you wonder how it’d feel to have him cum in you, would it burn? You don’t get to think of it for very long, legs parting easily when his fingers dig under the elastic of your underwear, stroking cleanly over your folds, before dipping lightly into your hole.

You can’t help but tighten instinctively, wanting them to stay inside, and can’t even find offence in the way he chuckles because he obligingly slides them back into you and, god yes, twists them just so.

“You like this?” He teases you, hand sliding under your shirt and scorching your skin. “Tell me how much.”

“Feels so good, amazing.” You gasp out obligingly, hips twitching as you try to get those fingers of his deeper in you; a dry sob breaks from your throat when his hand leaves your chest to pin them down instead. “Yoongi, please—”

“Not yet.” He leans over you to take your lips with his; and the sight of his sculpted body arched over you like this makes the blood rush to your head dizzyingly fast, and you grow embarrassingly slick around his fingers. “Oh? Now you’re just dripping, aren’t you?”

You shake your head and choke on a whine when his fingers cease all movement.

“Want to try being honest with me?” His voice is significantly colder than you’ve ever heard it be, and it lights a panic in your chest that won’t go away.

“I – I am!” You squirm, panting when Yoongi begins massaging inside your hole again, sweet relief, but not enough. “I’m wet, just for you, I swear—”

“Good.” He cuts you off, and tears actually brim your eyes this time when pulls his fingers out easily. “Oh, none of that. It’s not fair that I’m doing all the work here, right?”

Staring uneasily at him, you shake your head. He… has a point there. He’s the one who’s been touching you; you haven’t done anything in turn yet.

“Exactly.” Yoongi scoots against the headboard, fiddling with the zip of his pants and pulling out his cock, giving it a lazy stroke. You stare unabashedly, heat pooling in between your legs; this is going to be inside you soon. “I need you to get this nice and wet for yourself; we don’t want it to hurt, do we?”

You shake your head, crawling in between his legs at his prompting. Dazedly, you wonder if there’s something you need to ask about right now – something you need to confirm before you take him into your mouth – but then he’s cupping the base of your neck and drawing you closer to his cock and all thoughts are being wiped from your mind as your mouth falls open and—

You gag at the girth of it as it slides in, hot and heavy on your tongue, struggling to breathe.

“Breathe in through your nose.” Yoongi’s voice is breathy, and you take his advice the best you can, mouth dropping further open as you inhale and exhale sharply through your nose. “Good girl. That’s what I like to see.”

Warmth effuses through your chest at the praise, and you suck at his cock with renewed vigor, wanting to hear those words again.

“You like when I tell you when you’re being good for me?” You startle momentarily when fingers slide over your hole, moaning quietly around his length as he rubs between your parted legs. This feels so incredibly dirty, somehow, but you don’t protest because it still feels so good, and, moreover, it’s Yoongi.

You’d do anything for him.

“Or would you prefer I let you know just how good of a slut you are?” You almost quake at that, and can practically hear the smile in Yoongi’s voice. “Alright then; option B it is.”

A hand cups the base of your neck again, though the fingers don’t stop rubbing at you, pushing your head down to accommodate more of his length in your mouth. You gag silently around it, tears springing into your eyes from the way it hits the back of your throat—and then you can breathe again, pulled into his lap.

“You would’ve looked so good with a mouthful of my cum.” He rubs at your lips, until they’re nearly oversensitive, twinging. “But there’s always next time, isn’t there?”

It’s only when he grinds upwards that you realize the head of his wet cock is pressed against your covered hole; your knees tremble as you continue to straddle him, trying your best not to collapse onto his chest.

There’s the sound of plastic crinkling; Yoongi’s knuckles brush against you as he slides on a condom with practiced ease, and his hand presses down on your lower back. Your eyes roll into your head when he pulls aside your underwear and finally slides into you; oh god, the heat, it burns so good and you don’t want it to ever stop.

“That good?” His chuckle reverberates as you collapse onto his chest, unable to hold yourself up. “Figures that a slut like you would lose her mind at the sight of a cock. Would just anyone do, then, as long as they make you feel good?”

Horror fills you at the mere thought and you quickly shake your head, a breathless “n-no!” leaving your lips. It’s only Yoongi, you want like this, “only y-you, Yoongi, please.”

“Ah, you sound so pretty saying my name like that.” A pleased hum makes your chest flush with warmth. “I really want to cum inside you, now. I bet it’d feel good for you too; sluts like that, don’t they?”

You dimly wonder what it’d feel like to feel his cock without anything in the way; you tighten around him at the thought of how warm it’d be inside you, how it’d make your head go deliciously blank.

“You want that too, huh?” He rolls his hips, making your mouth drop open in unbridled pleasure. Your nerves sing at every touch, growing closer and closer to the edge. “Get tested tomorrow, then, and come over again. I’ll make you feel even better.”

Tomorrow? Hazily, you think to yourself that there’s something you’ve promised to do tomorrow; but then he hits that spot in you, the spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes, and your mind goes blank.

“I – ah, Yoongi, oh god – I will!” You promise, and he rewards you by flipping you over, mouth put to work on your bruised skin.

Your arms link around his broad back, and your mind drifts.

This must be heaven.

  “So, you had sex with Yoongi?” Your friend looks at you incredulously, the next morning. “Girl, are you insane?”

“What’s wrong with that?” You frown, sipping at your chocolate-flavored drink. “I mean, yeah, it wasn’t really what I had in mind, but this works too!”

“You’re unbelievable.” They shake their head, and something in you grows cold. “It isn’t like you to settle—”

“What, just because I’m sleeping with him, I’m unbelievable?” You fight to keep your voice low. “So, what, am I a slut to you too?”

“What?”

“I don’t know, you tell me!” You grip tightens around your cup, the only sign of your simmering rage. “I’m not settling for anything, you don’t understand! Besides, he’ll see things my way soon.”

“Really?” They raise an eyebrow at you, and it rubs you entirely the wrong way. You’re not stupid, the way they make you seem. “To me, it looks like he wants something with no strings attached – tell me, how exactly is this going to end well?”

“It will.” You stare resolutely at your cup.

“Wow. Great answer.” They say, sarcasm oozing from their words, before they grow serious. “Look, I care about you, okay? I don’t want to see you make a mistake—”

“I’m not a child.” You snap, finally. “I’m tired of you being so condescending all the time; you aren’t better than me, so just keep your damn opinions to yourself!”

Your friend stares at you with wide eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to care, too incensed.

“I only told you about this because you’re supposed to be my friend.” You say reproachfully, hands curling into fists. “Friends are supposed to encourage and support each other; why can’t you do that?”

“Because this is obviously not a good decision for you!” They burst out, frowning. “I’m not about to support a decision that’ll only hurt you.”

“Wow.” Your chair scrapes against the floor as you stand up. “Wow. Fuck you, man.”

You grab your drink, ignoring the startled look on their face, and walk away. Paying no heed to their shouts of your name, you pull out your phone, dialing a number.

The line rings, until an unfamiliar voice picks up.

“Hi.” Your voice is firm. “Is this Keystone Hospitals? I’d like to make an appointment.”

  This time, Yoongi greets you at the door with a smothering kiss, and you barely make it past the doorway before he’s sliding a hand up your skirt and rubbing at your favorite spot. It doesn’t take much longer after that for your underwear to slide down your bare legs, for your skirt to be rucked up.

“Ah! Mm, Yoongi.” You gasp out, hands cupping the base of his neck so you can kiss him properly as he massages you between your legs. “We’re – oh – not even inside yet—”

“Sorry, you looked so good I couldn’t wait – you should wear skirts more often.” He molds his body against yours; a perfect fit. “Did you get the results?”

You can’t take in enough air to answer as Yoongi grinds against you, thrusting his clothed erection against your bare folds, until he pulls away expectantly.

“Yeah.” You grin breathlessly at him. “All negative.”

“Good girl.” A pleased tilt to his lips as he kisses you again, makes you fall limp in his grasp. “Let’s celebrate that, shall we?”

“Please.” You mewl sweetly, and don’t utter a word of protest when he lifts you up and takes you there, right up against the wall.

  “That was good, wasn’t it?” Yoongi grins at you, and you can’t help the flutter in your chest as his mouth moves lazily against yours when you go in to kiss him.

“Mhm.” You agree, fingers unthinkingly sliding in between your legs at the feeling of cum slipping out. It really did feel as good as he promised, and you can’t wait to feel it again and again – as many times as he’s willing to let you. “Could I use the shower?”

“You could.” You pause, knowing from his tone that there’s something he intends to follow up with. “But, I think it’d be much sexier if you went home just like this. You’d like that too, right? Knowing my cum’s inside as you walk around, with none the wiser, feeling it dripping with every step you take?”

Your cheeks heat up, and your hand rubs lightly at your crotch; you’ve never thought about it before, but…

“O-Okay.” You approve, bending over to grab your panties and sliding them on. It feels a little weird, but the thought of making Yoongi happy bolsters you on; it takes hardly any time to get your skirt on after that. “Is this… is this okay?”

Yoongi smiles softly at you, causing flutters to erupt in your stomach.

“Come here.” He beckons you forward, and you slide into his lap like clockwork, sighing at the feel of his warmth. “You’re such a good slut for me, baby; this is absolutely perfect.”

You sigh out a pleased little hum, and breathe in his scent; muted, musky – entirely Yoongi. “I’m glad.”

“Alright, you should get going.” He sets you down gently, stretching. “We should do this at the library next time – Sunday? Hardly anyone’s going to be there.”

“In public?” Your cheeks burn red. “I – I don’t know, Yoongi, that just seems—”

“Hey.” His hands are warm – always so warm – on your cheeks, though his gaze is cool. “Do you trust me?”

“I – I do.” You admit reluctantly, rewarded with a soft kiss.

“Good girl. If you trust me, you won’t need to worry about it; just meet me there this Sunday, at seven – okay?”

“Alright.” You lean in again, wanting to feel Yoongi’s soft lips again, and sigh in satisfaction when he meets you halfway. “I’ll do that.”

  It’s only when you get home that you even bother to look at your phone – and your eyes grow wide, ice spreading in your chest. Eleven messages from Jungkook, and two missed calls.

Fuck. Fuck.

You could hit yourself – you were supposed to meet Jungkook today, that’s what you’d forgotten. Wasting no more time, you immediately call him back, heart in your throat.

‘Finally realized I exist again?’ He picks up, but his voice is the very opposite of its usual cheeriness. The worst part is, you can’t blame him. ‘What do you want?’

“I’m so sorry.” You rush to say, lungs rattling in your chest. “I swear, Jungkook, I never meant to ditch you today, I just got – really sidetracked and it was wrong of me not to let you know, I just—oh god, I’m so sorry.”

‘…that was a really shitty thing to do, you know.’ He says quietly.

Your eyes water. “I – I know.”

‘I waited there for two whole hours.’

The tears spill over. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a sigh, and the slight rustle of fabric – clothes? Blankets, maybe? You aren’t too sure.

‘Don’t do it again.’ He says finally, and the pressure on your chest eases somewhat. ‘I was pretty bored with just banana milk for company.’

“I won’t!” You promise, a relieved laugh erupting from your throat; he’s forgiven you, how’s he so kind? “I swear, I won’t! I’ll – I’ll make it up to you; does tomorrow sound okay?”

‘My, my, plans on a Friday night, when you should be hitting the books?’ Jungkook teases, and the sound of it is so familiar it makes you collapse onto your bed. ‘Nah, I’m free, but only till six. I’ve got skateboarding after.’

“That works for me.” You assure him, “and I won’t randomly disappear this time.”

His laughter is genuine, crinkly over the speaker. ‘That would be nice.’

  Your semester quickly flies by, just like that.

You still haven’t spoken to your friend since that day; they haven’t even bothered trying to get in touch with you. If they really cared as much as they said they did, they’d have tried checking in by now, you tell yourself. You’d do it yourself – but they were in the wrong, and you refuse to bow down to their whims, not when it’d send out the wrong message.

You still meet up with Jungkook; going to that diner has become a near-daily event, by now, and you never tire of hearing his laughter at a particularly witty joke you’ve cracked or wheezing until your chest hurts when he talks about embarrassing skateboarding errors he’s made in the past. You’ve taken up drinking soy milk, much to his chagrin; when he asks you why, you just give him a half-shrug and say it’s time for a change.

There’s no way in hell you’re telling him it’s to make yourself look better for Yoongi. Speaking of which…

You’ve started spending nearly every night at Yoongi’s place; you’ve even got a portion of his closet reserved for your skirts and dresses, and a smaller section for your blouses. You’ve come to realize he really likes you in them; it might be the fact that he can appreciate your legs, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s just so easy for him to dip his hand between your thighs – but, either way, he has no complaints and neither do you. Most nights are spent in his arms, filled with him inside you and you’re almost there, you can feel it.

As you enact your plan, you notice that Yoongi’s lost the cold, brittle edge in his eyes that always seemed so ever-present; it’s given way to a softness in his gaze when you make him breakfast, or gift him a book of poems or a plushie he really wants and the sight of it sends a happy thrum up your spine every single time.

Everything’s almost perfect.

.

.

.

.

.

Until it’s not, of course.

.

.

.

.

.

“I really like you, ________. Would you – would you go out with me?”

Jungkook isn’t looking at you, eyes on the pavement, and that’s for the better because you don’t even know what to say. You can only imagine what kind of expression you must be making because when he looks up, he bites his lip and drops his head back down.

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes then and, for some reason, that makes you so impossibly sad.

“Don’t – don’t say that.” Your voice wrangles its way out, breathless. “But – how? Why would you even like me, it just doesn’t make sense—”

You cut yourself off when warm, calloused hands grasp your own, impossibly gentle.

“Don’t say that about my feelings, please.” His eyes are resolute, earnestness shining through. Almost vindictively, the sun casts its light on his handsome features again; only, this time, there just something incredibly tragic about it. “They’re genuine. And I can’t say exactly why I like you, ________, just that I do. I look forward to every time I get to hear your terrible jokes, every time you go on a rant about how unfair your professors are; I look forward to being with you. It’s comfortable, and it makes me happier than I remember ever being.”

Your mouth is dry, and you lick your lips unthinkingly.

“I – I don’t know what to say.” You try, voice coming out hoarse. “I just – oh, um, wow. I’m flattered, but—”

“But you don’t feel the same way.” There’s a sad curve to Jungkook’s mouth, and your hands feel cold when they’re dropped. “It’s alright, I understand.”

“I’m sorry.” You blurt out, trying to make this better, somehow. “I mean, you could be feeling friendly feelings and – and I’m sure you’ll find someone—”

“________.” He holds up a hand, making you stammer to a stop. “Please don’t.”

“…I’m just making it worse, huh?” You say dully, and he gives you a pained chuckle.

“Yeah, a bit.” He agrees, sighing heavily. Your heart weighs down in your chest, and you bite your lip, trying to keep a lid on your emotions. “And you don’t need to blame yourself – it’s not your fault, okay? I just… I just—”

“Need some time?” You offer quietly, and watch as he takes in a deep breath and nods. “That’s fine; whatever helps. I’m only sorry that I’ve hurt you.”

“It’s fine.” He shakes his head, taking a tiny step back. The sight of his downturned lips makes your heart hurt. “I just – I guess I’ll get going then. See you around someday, ________.”

“Yeah. See you.” You quietly watch his retreating back, unable to explain why tears burn at your eyes, sobs catching in your throat before they can fully escape. Turning around, you stumble back inside your dorm, falling onto the bed.

Jungkook’s gone.

  You visit Yoongi’s place near constantly after that – some days even pass without you even stepping back into your room. The sight of his dark eyes is almost enough to patch up your bleeding heart, and you reach for that relief with your hands outstretched.

“He confessed to you?” You nod from where you’re nestled into his side. “Oh, wow. I didn’t expect that.”

“Neither did I.” You admit quietly, watching as he disinterestedly flips through the pages of Plath’s Greatest, as though on autopilot. “I told him I already like someone else, though.”

Your chest burns as you wait for him to ask; just ask, and I’m all yours.

“Oh?” His fingers stop mid-flip, before they resume their movement. “I see. That’s too bad, then.”

…he didn’t ask.

You deflate, but shrug anyway, not wanting to let it on. You’ll just have to work harder, then, and get him to actually notice you. Then, maybe everything will work out.

“Do you mind if I go home?” You ask softly, and Yoongi shakes his head, unconsciously lifting an arm to let you slip out from his side. You feel cold immediately once you do but do your best not to show it; there’s no reason he would mind – you clearly aren’t contributing much just by sticking around, after all.

“Bye.” He waves a hand and you answer in turn, slipping out the door.

The next time he invites you over, you vow to yourself, you’re going to do something about this.

  Except, the next time he contacts you is over two whole weeks later. You’ve spent this entire time with a cold anxiety gripping your chest; wondering what you might’ve have done that could’ve ticked Yoongi off, wondering what you could possibly do to make everything better, to earn his forgiveness.

Which is why when your phone buzzes in the middle of your class, and it’s Yoongi’s contact that shows up, you waste no time in shoving your things into your backpack and leaving in a hurry. Your fingers shake as they fumble with the phone and slide to accept the call.

“Yoongi?” You ask hesitantly, something hopeful in your chest at the thought that he might be calling to tell you to come over, to tell you he’s in the library or – or something.

There’s only silence, and a sharp intake of breath.

‘________.’ It really is Yoongi’s familiar, gravelly voice that filters through. But there’s something – something’s off, and it makes your stomach clench. There’s a hesitation in his voice that was never there before, and it feels wrong, so wrong it makes you sick. ‘I’ve been thinking and I need to tell you – I don’t want to do this anymore.’

The world moves like molasses. So do the words that leave your mouth.

“What… are you saying?”

Your heart pounds. He’s joking. He’s joking. He’s got to be joking, this is – this is a trick, right?

‘I – I don’t want to have sex with you anymore.’ Yoongi confirms your worst fears, and you brace yourself against the wall. ‘But, ________, it’s not—’

You can’t listen to this, can’t just let him rip your heart out like this, and you waste no time in hanging up. Through your blurry vision, you see Yoongi’s caller ID pop up on screen again and cut the call again. The tears trail down your face, dropping on your screen as you block Yoongi, not wanting to see anything that could remind you of him right now, not when you’ve been such an idiot.

Your friend was right.

Sobs leave your throat and you wipe at your tears, grabbing at the straps of your backpack and sprinting out of the building, uncaring at how you must look right now with your cheeks wet and hair flying about wildly.

You just want to go home.

All you want to do – all you feel you can do, right now – is throw yourself onto your bed and cry and sob and scream into your pillow until your voice runs itself hoarse. And, you don’t know how, but you ultimately reach your room and get to do exactly that.

You try to reach for your phone to call your friend, before your fingers spasm and stop, and the phone falls out of your slack grip. How could you forget? They don’t like you anymore. You can’t talk to them, not after you’ve driven them away. And you can’t call Jungkook anymore either, not after he’s asked for space, and oh god, what have you done?

No one likes you anymore.

Eventually, you manage to peel yourself off the covers and stumble to your bathroom, dry sobs leaving your raw throat at what you finally see in the mirror; puffy, swollen eyes, mouth bleeding from teeth dug in too deep, splotchy, discolored cheeks.

Unsightly. Is this why Yoongi stopped liking you? Why everyone stopped liking you? Or maybe it’s because of you; you being such an idiot that you’ve made everyone hate you. Is this really what you deserve?

Your fingers are white as they grip at the sink, and you sob hysterically into the mirror – you can’t tell yourself that you don’t.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, voice nearly entirely lost, as you drop to the bathroom floor and hug your knees to yourself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

 I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

  There’s no one around to hear you.

Min Yoongi [5:54PM]

______ please, pick up, let me explain.

Please

I think I’m fray. It means I don’t feel sexually attracted to you anymore because I’ve come to really like you... romantically.

Min Yoongi [6:01PM]

Please pick up?

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I didn’t know.

Min Yoongi [6:09PM]

______?

Min Yoongi [6:15PM]

Yeah, true, I guess it is pretty weird. 

Sorry.

                                              [messages not sent]

yoongi’s actually not an asshole this time - well, not completely anyway. fraysexuality is a real thing, yes - it’s part of the gray spectrum - but it’s admittedly obscure.

written by: midnight!

[kitanoko]

So this is kind of a sad-turned-cute prompt but imagine Yaomomo getting stood up on a blind date and Todo to the rescue!

 Note: Thanks! Actually I had this in mind half a year ago but never wrote it. Happy reading! This one is longer than the others :p I also paid homage to the drama cd haha

In which Todoroki sees her again after a year

               Herfriends made this sound a lot easier than it really was.

               Justtwo hours ago, Yaoyorozu was in her room with Ashido, Hagakure, and Jirou asclothes were being stuffed back into her drawers, and then taken out again. Shestood like a mannequin for the three girls as bouts of laughter encompassedthem. With jewellery dangling on her like a Christmas tree, she took noticeof how much of a pig sty her room had become. Ashido, being the hopeless romantic,wanted to set her up with someone she met from middle school. Strong, tall,charming, responsible…was what Ashido described the mystery blind date as, andwith no doubt, he was someone who valued someone else’s time.

               Thenwhy is it that he still hasn’t shown up?

Yaoyorozu pondered quite considerably too,before agreeing to this, since she had someone whom she had high regards for but shewas certain destiny has it that they weren’t meant to be. So why not give this‘perfect’ guy a chance?

               “Areyou still waiting for your friend?” The server came again to ask, professionallybalancing 5 plates at once, and Yaoyorozu could count with her fingers the number oftimes she had checked up on her table for thus far. Exactly 4 times.

               “Yeah,he should be here soon,” Yaoyorozu gave a fake smile, so meek that even she couldn’tfool herself, “He is stuck in traffic, I think.” Her last words trailed offinto a discreet utterance.

               “Alrightthen, call me when you’re ready to order,” the server gave her a quizzicallook, suspicion written all over her expression, and walked away with a sway ofher hips. Yaoyorozu rested her head on her palm, playing with the littlepackets of raw sugar on the side of the table with her other hand and sighed.

~~

               “Okayso the newest superhero movie just came out, who’s down to go this weekend?!”Kirishima’s sharp, fang-like teeth glinted as he gave a large grin, “It’s gonnabe the best movie of 2017, I swear!”

               “I’llgo,” Tokoyami laid his arm around Midoriya as Kaminari nodded in agreement, “AndMidoriya, you better go too. Don’t tell me you’re hanging out with Urarakaagain.”

               Midoriyamouth formed a thin line, “With our schedule, I haven’t been able to see her for two weeksTokoyami-kun, so….”

               “No cando,” Tokoyami shook his head, his feathers ruffled as he did so, making themappear more dynamic than usual, “Todoroki, how about you?”

               Thethree guys turned to face Todoroki right when the gorgeous and curvy bartenderdelivered their beers. Kirishima cocked an eyebrow when something black caughthis eye underneath Todoroki’s glass and he sloped his body forward to take apeak, and sure enough, it was the bartender’s scribbly handwriting forming herphone number and flirty words of sorts. Kirishima knew beforehand that thebartender had zero chance.

Looking back at Todoroki, he seemed veryconcentrated on something on the other side of the room, neglecting the gazesthat he was receiving from his friends, and Kaminari smirked.

               “Todoroki,are you checking out some hot girl?” Kaminari stuck his head out and scannedthe area shamelessly, and his brows began to furrow, “Which girl are you evenlooking at?”

               Noresponse came and on the contrary, it seemed that Kaminari’s question cuedTodoroki’s aimless gaze to fix on his drink. The bartender watched himsolicitously as her number below his hand caught his attention, but heignored it just as fast. The boy gulped down most of the beer, wiped his mouthwith a quick motion and was prepared to leave his seat.

               “Ehh?Isn’t that Yaoyorozu?” Kirishima cried out in surprise, “Let’s go say hi! It’sbeen like a year since we saw her.”

               Kaminari’sface brightened up, “You were staring at Yaoyorozu? Man, Todoroki, you are so…”

               Hisstomach dropped when Todoroki’s death glare pierced him and he quickly shut hismouth.

              Thered-haired boy was bursting with energy though and his chair wobbled as hepushed off his bar stool. However, Kirishima wasn’t reading the mood properly,both Tokoyami and Midoriya recognized, and Tokoyami’s outstretched arm haltedhim midway.

               Midoriyaspoke without skipping a beat, “doesn’t it look like she’s waiting for someone?Impatiently too?”

               Tokoyamicrossed his arms and closed his eyes, looking thoughtful, “It’s the abyss oflove.”

               Theothers, with the exception of a nonchalant Todoroki, were taken aback by theirfriend’s unexpected, edgy comment. Good ol’ Tokoyami.

               “Lookslike she got stood up though,” Kaminari swallowed, “It’d be embarrassing forher if we go over there now.”

               It’sthe sophisticated yet mournful look on Yaoyorozu’s face that urged Todoroki toact. She’s mature enough to handle herself, he acknowledged that fact, but shedidn’t deserve to be treated like this. Putting his unfinished glass down witha thud, he maneuvered past the other patrons and headed over to her, paying noheed to his friend’s remarks.

~~

               The mixof footsteps was muffled to her by now and the music didn’t grow on her either.It won’t be long till her patience subsided completely. She was frustrated anddisappointed, but most of all, she felt shamed. ‘Too naïve’, was what shealways said to those around her, as if she had the right to criticize. But nowit pertained to her. Oh, the irony.

               “Yaoyorozu.”

               A whiffof spice overcame her senses and she poised, “You’re finally here!” Her voicebroke in a happy tune.

The girl looked up and froze,meeting icy orbs plus white and red hair. She was stupid for not recognizinghis familiar, bold voice.

Todoroki gestured in an attemptto ask if he was allowed to sit across from her and she nodded slightly. Heshould be glad for her to be meeting people, much less people of romanticinterest, but as if thorns jabbed his chest, he wanted so bad to kick whoever thisguy was all the way to Antarctica.

“Oh your friend is here!” Theserver couldn’t be more coincidental and eyed Todoroki up and down, a blushreaching her cheeks.  Yaoyorozu pressedher lips together.

“He’s actually not the…”

“Yeah, I’m late,” Todoroki cutin, flipping through the menu like a storm, “I’ll take the steak and she willhave the same.”

“Wha—“

“Oh and also two glasses of the1990 Chateau Margaux.”

At that, both the server andYaoyorozu’s eyes widened. The latter was sure the price for that particularwine was $450 per glass but was partly glad that he remembered her favourite choice of reds. After the server thanked them profusely and walkedaway, the two sat there in a silent discord. Both wanting to ask each otherabout their new lives, eyes meeting and fleeting away, yet hesitant to know ofone another’s change.

She kicked his leg accidentallyunder their wooden table.

“Uh sorry,” she spoke first,igniting the conversation, “Todoroki, I’m just wondering…why are you here?”

“Why, am I not allowed to behere?”

This prompted her thoughts of theEnnichi Festival where a similar question was raised by him years ago.

“No, of course you are,” shepeeked at him. Through candlelight, his jaw line appeared more defined and hishair was a little shorter than she recalled. Everything else about him wasthe same though; he was still making her heart race without even trying.

“So was someone supposed to behere?” he stared at her and her eyes darted away.

“Well,” she started to focus onthe buttons on his sleeves, “Ashido’s acquaintance was supposed to be here.”  

“Like a date?” he asked, notintending to make her restless but the shiver of her hand proved the contrary.

“Like a date.” She managed torepeat, and her shoulders relaxed, “but he never showed up.”

“Maybe he came and saw you andwalked away,” he added.

Todoroki’s desperate attempt at joking andmaking her laugh was abysmal. His statement was met with lamentable eyes and heknew that ruined the mood.

“I was kidding,” he quicklyexplained, scratching the back of his neck. Yaoyorozu looked hopeful for asecond and giggled. Noticing the upward motion of his lips as well, a nostalgicfeeling showered her. In the back of her mind, an unnerving question coercedher to speak and finally she gave in.

“Todoroki,” she spoke,anticipating, “so are you seeing anyone?”

“Yes,” he said and she felt apang in her chest, but recovered when he continued, “I see Midoriya quite often.”

“Oh,” she was relieved, “I meanare you dating anyone.”

Todoroki thought for a while, “No.I don’t know how to attract the person that I like.”

Yaoyorozu gulped inaudibly.Within the past year, things have changed too much. They had grown up.

 “Ithink …girls are simple though. They like food, and flowers,” she responded with a gleeful tone.

“Mmm,” his voice trailed off, heturned around, looking as though he was searching for something, “how aboutsteak and wine?”

“Yeah steak and wine works,” she bither lip, crestfallen, “Whomever you like must be lucky.”

“No I think I’m luckier.”

She considered his every moveafter his last word, while toying with the piece of hair that framed her face.As the server came to place their food on the table, Todoroki stood up from hisseat without warning. He didn’t stall to think about where to go and gaveYaoyorozu a quick glance.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, “Yougo ahead.” And she was left to wonder what he had in mind.

After a minute, Todoroki cameback panting and when Yaoyorozu casted her eyes over to him from a half eatenpiece of potato, she was ossified in her seat.

There he was, standing with onepink rose decorated with cellophane and chevron ribbons. He pushed it towardher, eyes commanding.

“Todoroki, what is—“

“Steak, wine and flowers,” hecorrected himself, “I mean a flower. The florist across the street was closingso this is what was left.”

He cleared his throat, sensinghis friends at the bar observing him, “I’ve wanted to do this since foreverago. But I was confused and I didn’t know what to do that was best and wouldimpress you.”

The girl opened her mouth tospeak, finally connecting the dots, but instead, she took a deep breath andaccepted his flowers.

“You could impress me with justyour presence, Todoroki.”

He was stunned by her answer andhis expression softened. Within the warm glow of the candles, she erased thedistracting silhouettes and sounds in her mind, tiptoed a bit, and kissed him.

[insidethecrack]

A dandelion in a hurricane

This is going to be so messy... and I feel so guilty because there is already so much I promised to talk about and I always differ... and also I’m sorry if this metaphor is really not the one for the mooment regarding what’s going on but there is no better one for what I have to discuss today, please, be sure I’m not trying to surf on anything. 

A few reminders first... We already cover some piece of that but schizophrenia erases all of your boundaries : your body boundaries, your mental boundaries, your emotional boundaries. Meaning that sometimes, you don’t know where your body stops and where the world starts (whatever the world is at the moment), you can’t recognise your own thoughts from someone else’s, and you don’t know if you’re the one feeling this emotion or the person next to you (may it be a total stranger in the subway, your 30 students or your best friend / loved one). This is really tricky. 

If you want to play the smart ass in family meeting, let’s dig some psychoanalysis (don’t worry, not much, I hate it and rarely understand what’s going on, so basicaly, if you like and understand this shit, you’re like a powerful and dark wizard to me). But I once heard that Lacan said that schizophrenic people doesn’t own a “symbolic” body. (you have the right to take a break to scream “what the hell is this shit !” I’ll just wait for you, I’ve been there too) (and I had to ask a friend to explain this better to me because it seems that I poorly understood it in the first place) What’s a symbolic body you’ll ask... Imagine your body free of any symbols. Consider that language is a symbol (one of the highest system of symbols you can ever consider in human society), so you have to imagine your body outside the language. Language makes you think of your body in the addition of several parts : arm, hand, leg, blood, bones, etc. We tend to consider this is the normal way to dissect and name body parts, except it’s not. It’s a way, the way we all agree to follow. But we could have decided to consider body parts other way. Instead of “hand is the thing at the end of your arm and composed of five fingers”, we could have chosen to consider this “thing from the end of my body to my head”. This means we could have more or less body parts, in a symbolic way. The way you name, count, and limit body part is a symbol. A symbol you have internalize so deep you don’t even realise it’s here. The symbolic body is the way you think your body in terms of body parts such as defined by the society and the language you’re living in. But people like me don’t own a symbolic body, we don’t have access to this representation of ourselves. Sure, I have hands and arms and legs and bones just like you do. I have the words to name them and if you ask me to place them on a drawing I’d be totally able to do it. But when it comes to represent my own body to me... All this vanish. I don’t have boundaries between me and the outside world, but I don’t have boundaries between my body parts either. For example, my knee hurts because I feel (twice) on the bus the other day and it’s pretty dirty.  I know it’s my knee. But when I feel the pain it’s just “we hurt here, inferior part, on the right, adjust the walk”. As far as I’m concerned the place of pain prevails on the body parts, pain has limits I can feel, but what’s a knee ? Don’t know, not sure. But pain I can understand. And this is one of my biggest issue of communication with neurotypical people... During a psychotic episode, or just when I feel very bad, I’ll tell them “I hurt”, and neurotypical will ask “where ?”. I’ll just look at them, very confused, as if they had answered “I have new schoes”, a bit offended too sometimes, and answer “where is not the fucking point ! I hurt”. Today, I can tell you that my knee hurts. But tonight I’ll just say “I hurt” because there will be nothing else real about my body but the pain. Can you imagine when I have to go to the doctor for an injury ? It’d be tricky, because I try to laugh about it when I can, but when it’s a doctor with zero patience, a doctor who doesn’t know me and who’s not trying to do an effort, these visits can turn into a huge moment of psychological AND physical distress. This can spread to many parts of my life. Like sex, I’ll be totally able to tell a partner I want sex, but if they ask “what kind of sex”, I’ll turn once again into a giant human puzzle, unable to answer, and kinda freaking out. I can’t dance because of this too, learning choreograhy, even the simplest ones, is a source of anxiety. “left hand right leg ??? which one is which ? what ? where ???” My brain will desperately cut my body into the smallest body part it can imagine to try to follow... It will quickly feel like I’m falling into pieces.

So what will we do with this concept of symbolic body ? It means that to my brain, there is no such thing as “metaphor” This is why this blog is full of metaphors, or imagery. All of these helps you better understand things that can be very obscure to you. But as neurotypical, there is something you miss (like some doctors when I try to explain my pain) : it is no imagery to me, it is real, it is how I understand and feel the world. I’m not only a writer in love with metaphors. They are no metaphor to me. They are my reality, they are how I feel and understand the world. If I tell you that I am naked in a hurricane, you have to understand it this way. Picture me naked in a hurricane. (and when I write sentences like this one I think I should be more careful with all this... anyway, what’s done is done, can’t unfeel what you felt right ?) I don’t mean anything else. Nothing more, nothing less.

Let’s sum up : I don’t know where my body, mind and emotion ends and where the world starts. I have no symbolic body which prevails me from properly explaining what’s going on for me. 

A few months ago, I cried for help because my headphones were dying. It may sound like a Rich Problem, but it’s not. Believe me, you don’t want to be outside, in the world, unaware of your boundaries and fighting to maintain your own consistency. My brain will catch everything. Every person walking sitting singing running screaming being here phoning playing. My brain will know where they go with who and at what speed. My brain will know how total strangers feel sometimes better than themselves. My brain will catch the weather the wind the sun the cold and the hot air the first raindrop and the last one. My brain will smell the work on the new subway the three kebab places the two crêpe restaurants the cigarettes the weed (which I can’t handle ! throws me into psychotic episode right away) the sweat the plastic of new schoes the garbage. My skin will feel the looks my clothes the weight of my backpack the people sitting next to me behind me their warmth. And the noise... the world is so noisy... you are all so fucking noisy people... And this is just a quickly put up list. So basicaly, if I’m alone outside and I’m musicless, my brain will litteraly explose under the crazy amount of information it has to sort out. 

Because I forgot to add : these are only the EXISTING thing ! But you have to add all my monsters, when they do happen, the paranoia and how I hear people think... So my brain has to sort out all the informations from the world AND in the same time, it has to sort these informations between “exist” “doesn’t exist” “no idea” (contrary to what you may think, the problem is not when the doesn’t exist box is too full, it’s when the no idea box is too full...). Which means, my brain never stops. Never ever ever. This is why I can’t sleep, because it doesn’t stop, there are always informations, always always. And I have no symbolic body to filter them, no cleaning transition room to bleach them. They all come right in my face. All the time. In this scenario, having music when I go out is a matter ot life. Music allows me to STOP things. Music filters the world. Music recreates missing boundaries. It gives me back the feeling of time, the feeling of safety. Suddenly, I have a thing between me and the world, something on which I can hold on and build myself. This is why you have so much music in my writing, even when I write novel or theatre...

Unfortunately, music cannot fully replace a symbolic body... It’s only a crutch. And if crutches are great when you have a broken foot, it’s not so great when both of you arms are also broken and you get dizzy every step. After a hell of a year (dismissal of my PhD funding, rape, shit jobs, being gaslighted by a new roomates who prevented me to sleep, running away from my own flat to wander from friend’s sofa to friend’s guest room, working 7 days a week during months until my health just failed me, falling back to self-harm...) music was not enough. And now I’m naked in a hurricane.

All the informations of the world are hitting me in the face, relentlessly. My brain doesn’t have time to sort it out, it all just goes too fast, so it gave up and I have piles and piles and piles of untreated informations lying around in my head and my body. I can barely move. I can barely think. There is no room left for it.

When you’re stuck in a hurricane, you don’t think. You just take the first thing you can and you run for your life. It’s quite different for mental hurricane... Sure, the wind and the storm and the water is the same. The wind is ripping my skin, I can barely keep my eyes open because it’s too strong and every movement is limited. But in life, when you’re facing a hurricane, you’re just expected to survive it. No one is going to ask you to solve impossible equations, or to crack a code, or to find a cure for cancer. Survive, the rest will wait. When it comes to mental hurricane, you still have to find a way for your house to hold on, find a way to protect your most precious (mental) belongings, or accept to lose them, but you will also be asked to act normal and plan your future. Put a smile on your face even if a car just hit your face and you’ve lost very important letters in the water. Right now, the world is a hurricane to me. There is nothing I can do to fight back. Like in a hurricane, all I can do is run for my life, but I also have to think about how to plan this life. I have to know WHERE to run. In real life, nobody asks you to plan your life AFTER the hurricane. In this mental hurricane, I still have to work my PhD, teach English (which means I have to think about a progression for my students), tell my mother when I’ll come for my brother’s birthday, apply for different jobs in different countries but which may happen in the same time. All of this with my brain so full of piles of informations that I can barely understand when tomorrow is.

To my brain, there is no difference between the sounds in the corridors, the articles I’m reading online, the deadline and work I have to honor, a hand on my shoulder, the food I should eat. It’s all information, in different shape and process, but still, information, filling me to death because we can’t keep with such a rythm. So sometimes, after a huge day of work involving a lot of socialising and real problem, at night, I can’t eat. Because my body is full. Full of sounds, of informations, of faces, of smell, of thoughts and feelings that aren’t mine (or maybe ?). And when it comes to that point, my body says “stop, fucking stop, no room left”. It is so overwhelming, that it feels like the world is going to eat me whole... I’m so full with the rest of the world that I barely exist anymore. The world is eating me. (oh look ! we’re back to carnivorous plants, damn, this schizophrenia almost writes itself up...)

Lately, the hurricane has worsened and barely left me any time to breathe. No break. The sound of the wind is unbearable. Sometimes, when people talk to me, I hear them from very very far away, or it feels like they’re talking in a language I can’t speak. My brain hears the words, but it’s like “huh ? ok... what am I supposed to do with this ?” I hear the words, I can see the sentences they create, but... it just makes no sense. Like when you’re learning a new language and you’re reading stuffs. Your brain can recognise the world an maybe how the sentence is built because it starts to understand how the language works, but you won’t understand what’s written because you don’t have enough words for the moment. So you’re just looking at the sentence like “huh ? ok...”. The hurricane is turning my life into a giant poorly dubbed movie. I can see your lips moving, but it’s not well syncronized, or I can’t hear it, or you’re poorly translated. There is nothing new here when it comes to oral expression. But now, the hurricane is so strong that it reached the written expression... It’s terrible. I’m retreating from the world, I barely answer to people. I’m scared because I don’t understand what they want from me, what I’m supposed to answer, what’s expected from me. It’s like when I try to speak in German, I’m not sure I got everything you said, and I’m fighting with my three words vocabulary to answer. This all makes me feel so terribly alone. I cut myself from social media to slow down the hurricane, retreat as much as possible. But I feel so fucking and desperately alone. And in the same I’m unable to reach people. And when they do reach me, I can’t hear them. You can’t reach me because I can’t hear you. I can’t reach you because I’m stuck in a hurricane and I have to survive. The writer of my life turned me into an equilibrist, cursed to look for an impossible balance. I’m a dandelion in a hurricane. The wind is pulling me on every side and I’m fighting not to be torn apart the ground, I can feel my weeds being blown on every directions and I know I’ll never find them back. 

And I’m tired. Tired to fight against the wind. I’m just a dandelion fighting a fucking hurricane, what are my chances anyway ? Tired to wait for the eye of the storm. And even if there were a fucking eye of the storm, how big would it be ? I had a 3 days break at a festival, all the good I had is already drown under the hurricane of informations and not even 2 weeks later, I’m already back to “unable to feel or think”, back to the void. When I wake up, the hurricane of thoughts and informations restart in a blink of an eye (this one is a real metaphor, it takes me ages to open my eyes in the morning, so blink’s way too much an effort ! English language makes metaphor, not I) and I’m just “fuck, I’m still myself” and I want to quit. Not like in “I want to kill myself”, but just, I want to quit... like “the commute is too long and the job is too hard and not even what I applied for and the coworkers are assholes and I hate this job I quit”. 

But you can’t quit your life. You can’t just “quit” a hurricane. You have to survive it. And if you do survive it, you have to be thankful. 

So this is why I’ve been quite silent lately... I was fighting a hurricane that summers was making even worse (new information : you have huge breast. new information : you’re sweating. new information : sweating so much it hurts. new information : your bra hurts becausr of so much sweat. new information : if you take off your bra your skin will burn from the rash between your breasts and your chest. new information : you fat cow. new information : please make arm not touching belly it burns.) (this kind of worse). In summer, it’s hot, so you can’t even hide in a nice sweater of your blanket... so I had to live without these few pieces of armor I own... You had no idea how I’m waiting for the rain to be back...

I feel like this article is so so so long... I’m sorry, this feels so messy... it’s very hard to think straight in a hurricane twisting you in every direction, breaking your body in so many little parts, I’m trying my best, I hope there’s something left for you. You can follow me and ask questions on FB. If you want to help me telling the world about the reality of schizophrenia, you can consider buying me a “coffee” here. A huge thank you to all of you who already donated, you blew my mind away... (in a good way, not in a hurricane way ^^) Love to all of you. Please, be safe. 

PS : Huge thanks to Jorge who proofread my try to explain psychoanalysis and explained it to me again, he’s a powerful Dark Wizard of Psychoanalysis and an incredible sweet human being making the world a better place. He is also a great artist, making writing and painting and pixel art and drawing and a lot of things. You can check his work here.